The Virgin Cure (15 page)

There was a rat inside Mrs. Riordan’s mattress, moving underneath me. I felt it come up through a hole at the end of the bed, slither past my ankle and tug at the hem of my dress. Not wanting to startle my host, I grabbed hold of my skirt and shook it, desperate to scare the rodent away.

“Shh, child, don’t be afraid,” Mrs. Riordan cooed in the dark. “They’ll settle down soon enough. You’ll see. They’re sweet, like children. The more you don’t want them around, the more they wish to be near you.”

I gave up trying to sleep. I lay there in the dark trying to figure out why Mama had gone. Before she’d sent me away, she’d grown devoted to staying put, sometimes not leaving the house for days. She’d sat in her chair by the window, talking through memories of her youth and of travelling with her father’s medicine show, of horses pulling beautiful caravans and days spent rafting along rivers from place to place, stopping to camp when the moon was full. That life had sounded better to me than any other I could imagine—even the one where our rooms and clothes and Chrystie Street were new again and my father had never gone away. “Let’s go to the river tonight, Mama,” I’d begged. “We’ll find the Gypsies and go with them. I won’t be any trouble, I promise.”

Shaking her head, she’d told me no. Her face had turned pale as she said, “As soon as I leave this spot—that will be the moment your father will come home. This city is filled with too many women, each one waiting to take another’s place. If I’m not here, some other woman will be here to open the door. She’ll welcome him, she’ll feed him. He’ll forget all about me and take up with the new one. You know Mrs. Peale from two doors down? Well, I can tell you for certain that weren’t the same Mrs. Peale who was there a year ago. Where’s that first Mrs. Peale, the one I knew?”

Mrs. James, Mrs. Deery, the first Mrs. Peale—all the women who came to Mama ended up asking the same question,
Does my man love me?

Mama would never tell them yes or no. She’d just look her petitioner in the eyes and ask, “Does he watch you when you walk away? Not with lust, mind you, but with care. As if he’s worried you might just up and disappear.”

At that, the woman would either sigh with relief or break down in tears. Then Mama would collect her fee and show the woman the door.

I’d often wondered if Mama’s test for love held true for everyone, even for mothers and daughters. The night Mrs. Wentworth took me by the hand and led me down the steps, I’d hoped to turn and see Mama wave one last goodbye. All she did was pull the curtain shut and turn down the light. She didn’t watch me walk away.

My heartbreak that night was terribly polite. It let me know it was coming for me, even when I insisted on ignoring it.
This won’t end well
, a quiet voice whispered from the centre of my head. Then my hands went moist, my mouth went dry, and my ears whined and buzzed with the warning of what was to come next.
Nothing good
.

P
ound, tap, tap. Pound, tap, tap. Pound, tap, tap, pound …

Mama used to sing a song with a rhythm that went just like that. It was a pretty little tune about a ladybird and her young. She sounded happy and free when she sang it, even when she got to the part where the ladybird’s babies burned.

Ladybird, ladybird
,
fly away home
.
Your house is on fire
and your children all gone
.
All except one
,
and that’s little Ann
,
and she has crept under
the warming pan
.

Pound, tap, tap. Pound, tap, tap. Pound, tap, tap, pound
. I beat my fist on the wooden door in the alley behind the Birnbaums’ shop.
This is how you let them know you’re waiting
, Nestor had said.

I’d left Mrs. Riordan’s early that morning, before she was awake. The scratching and nibbling of the rats was more than I could bear. No matter how kind she was, she was a spectre of everything I didn’t want to become. I’d vowed to go back on occasion, bringing her a twist of roasted peanuts or a pail of flat beer to repay her for her kindness, but I’d never stay with her again.

“Good day,” came a man’s voice from above my head.

I looked up to find spectacled eyes peering down at me through a peephole that had opened near the top of the door.

Standing straight, I greeted the man with a polite smile. “Good day, sir.”

Nestor had told me how things should go with Mr. Birnbaum, explaining that the man’s customers all addressed him as “Herr” Birnbaum and that only his friends and business acquaintances were allowed to call him by his first name, which was “Wolfe.” The boys who worked for him called him “sir” and never “boss.” His wife simply called him Lieb, because he cared for her more than anyone or anything else. “She’s the one you have to please,” Nestor had warned. “It’s not easy to get on Mrs. Birnbaum’s good side, but once you’re there, you’re set.”

“We have business, I take it?” Mr. Birnbaum asked, staring down at me.

I was alone in the alley, but I’d passed a group of roughs on my way here and I couldn’t help thinking they might not be far behind. They’d been loud and rude, smacking their lips and sucking kisses from the air when I walked by. Although they couldn’t have known about the bracelet, I was worried they’d followed me anyway, just to see me run. Reaching up my sleeve, I pulled Mrs. Wentworth’s golden snake down far enough that Mr. Birnbaum could see it.

He pushed his face farther through the hole, his eyes tick-tocking as he looked at the bracelet. “Yes, yes, it would seem that we do.”

I reached for the handle on the door, but Mr. Birnbaum stayed put, still staring at me. Finally, he cleared his throat and asked, “Who sent you here, dear girl?”

“A friend called Nestor,” I replied.

“And your name is?”

“Miss Moth Fenwick, sir,” I answered, trying to sound as proper as I could.

“May I assume you’re here because you assisted Nestor in some way?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered.

Mr. Birnbaum slid the peephole shut and I heard him turn lock after lock after lock. Once the door opened, it led right to another. Behind the second door was a landing where you could choose to go up a flight of stairs, down a flight of stairs or straight ahead into the backroom of the shop.

Gaslights glowed along the walls, making it seem far too cheerful a meeting spot for thieves. Boxes and barrels were stacked neat against the sides and there wasn’t a scrap on the floor. There was a bright copper spittoon in the corner and when I looked down into it, I could see to the bottom. The inside of the thing was just as shiny as the rest. There was a funny little sign on the wall above it with a picture of a woman chasing after a man holding a rolling pin high above her head. The man’s face was red and his cheeks were all puffed out, his eyes bulging. There was writing on it too, but it was in the fancy, fat script of the kind that was on so many of the signs in the shop windows of Dutchtown. From the look on the woman’s face, I guessed the sign said something awful, something mean enough to make a man think twice before doing any spitting at all.

Mr. Birnbaum had the same kind eyes and warm smile as Mr. Bartz, a shopkeeper on Stanton Street, only Mr. Birnbaum still had all his hair on his head and Mr. Bartz had none. Mr. Bartz sold bread, cheese, sausages, beans, beer, hot soup, and two kinds of pickles from two great glass jars—one for sour and one for sweet. His potato soup was three cents a cup, and once in a long while, when Mama’d had a really good day, she’d let me go down and fetch some to share.

Mr. Bartz would ladle the steaming soup from the black of the pot, and then go behind the counter and bring out a large loaf of pumpernickel bread, the crust shining and dark. He’d always cut the end off and hand it to me. I’d shake my head, trying to refuse it, but he’d take my hand and place it there, insisting in his deep, kind voice, “Take it, dear girl. You’re nothing but a wisp.”

Mama said that Mr. Bartz would be ruined one day, because he cared too much for making things right and keeping people happy. I hoped that she was wrong. To me, it was because of Mr. Bartz that things kept going as right as they could in our part of the city. In the spring, when the crusts of dirty snow melted, the great puddles that were left behind in the street got kicked and splashed by the horses and streetcars. Storefronts and houses were soon plastered with a vile slop of chicken innards, bits of wet newsprint and stale dung. Mr. Bartz scoured every bit of it off his place. He sent his goodness through the handle of his broom like a shock of lightning, casting the dirt off his steps while the rest of the street fell to the rats. He took rags and vinegar water and rubbed round and round at his windows. His place would be clean even if it killed him. He would not give up.

I planned to go straight to his shop when I was finished here to order myself a bowl of soup and to make certain he was still there.