The Professor and Miss Sanchez sat off to one side at a small table. Miss Sanchez was watching the performance, but the Professor kept glancing at the Delphia Queen. Hazel so wanted to make both of them proud, to show them that she was good for something other than sneaking about like a common street rat. After the performance, she imagined that Miss Sanchez would have a little smile and the Professor would muss her hair and tell her she had done well.
But Hazel couldn’t run to the Professor and Miss Sanchez after the performance. She knew that. She was safe while she was on stage, but if her uncle knew anything about her new life, anything at all, he could find her. So she could not give any indication that she knew the Professor. Her only hope was to run. To vanish behind the stage, maybe find her way into one of the pavilions and slip out under a back flap. Yes, she would run. Her heart pounded and her bow hand trembled. A long note came out with a slight warble.
She focused on the sheet music. Mr. Augustus was off to one side, listening. He would have heard the mistake. This was her big chance, her only chance, and it was going to be ruined because of her uncle. Her anger surged. It wasn’t fair.
It had not been fair when her parents had died of the influenza outbreak that swept through the area north of New Orleans. First her mother had sickened, then her father. She had caught the fever also, but after two weeks in bed, she had recovered and found herself alone in the world. Alone but for her little black terrier, Mandy. Her father’s brother had a wife, a house and no children, so a neighbor had seen her packed off to the city. Her parents had lived outside of New Orleans and it was a short cart ride into town. Hazel found her uncle’s house to be pleasant, a medium-sized house with a large tree to climb and cool places to sit and think. If only he and his wife had been so pleasing.
Aunt Beth was a sad-faced woman of few words. And those she had were often punctuated by sharp pinches, given to the back of Hazel’s upper arm whenever she forgot her manners. If she cried out or pulled away, another harder pinch would follow, this one twisting the flesh until Hazel held still to receive her punishment in silence. By the end of the first week, her right arm, the one that was nearest her aunt at the dinner table, was covered in purplish bruises.
Mandy, her little black terrier, trotted behind Hazel everywhere, either in the house or in the yard. She stayed in the yard when Hazel was at school and Hazel brought her inside in the afternoons, let her outside at supper, and brought her in at night. She held Mandy at night, crying into her fur until she could only lay there, staring out the bedroom window at the black sky. Mandy would lick her face and snuggle her head up under Hazel’s chin. They slept that way most nights.
One night, Hazel was in bed, her stomach empty because she had been sent to bed with no supper. She had forgotten to put her school shoes away and had left them downstairs. Her aunt’s motto was “start as you mean to go on,” and she was determined to train Hazel to be a proper and responsible young lady. The offense had to be punished. It was the only way someone like Hazel would learn, and so Hazel had been sent to bed early. She had read a book for a while, then got bored and played her violin as softly as she could so she would not disturb her aunt and uncle and draw further punishment. She picked up her book again, and once it was too dark to read, she cuddled Mandy, whispering to her in the dark until she fell asleep.
A growl from Mandy woke her. Her bedroom door was open and her uncle stood in the doorway. Her eyes were accustomed to the dark, and she saw that he was in his nightclothes. At first she wondered what was wrong, but he didn’t look upset. He sat on the edge of the bed and Mandy growled again. Her uncle grabbed the dog by the scruff of her neck and tossed her out the door, closing it noiselessly. Hazel had been too shocked to protest. She remembered him pulling back the blanket and the way his hand had felt as he moved it up her leg.
He had come to her room some nights, doing things she wished she could forget and whispering terrible things in the dark that Hazel only half understood. But she understood enough after that first night. She was not like other people, not like other girls. She was worse, so much worse, something vile and repugnant. Her parents had loved her, but it had only been because they had to. That’s the way mothers and fathers were. Mandy was too stupid to know any better, so the dog loved her too. But the truth was that Hazel was a thing apart, a thing with the appearance of a girl, but without the light heart or laughter that her friends at school seemed to possess. Sometimes, she wondered if she had a soul.
After Uncle Andrew left her room, Mandy would always run back in and lick Hazel’s face until she could not tell if the wetness on her cheeks was from her tears or the dog’s saliva. Then she would breathe in the scent of Mandy’s fur and try to sleep and forget. Eventually, the sleep would come.
One night, Mandy whimpered and leapt from the bed as the door opened. She stood in front of the bed and then launched herself at Uncle Andrew, yanking on the cuff of his pajamas. He kicked her, and she skidded across the floor, only to scamper forward and clamp her jaws down on his ankle. Uncle Andrew’s hand shot down, grabbing Mandy by the neck, but the agile little dog twisted, sinking her teeth into his hand. He flung her and she hit the wall with a sharp bang. She lay unmoving on the floor.
Hazel ran to her. Mandy shook her head and staggered to her feet, only to fall again. The dog was dazed, but would live. Hazel screamed and flew at her uncle, beating at his stomach and chest. She was screaming words she had never used before. She called him every vile word she could think of. Her uncle caught her wrists in his hands, and twisted to hold both her wrists in one hand. He hit her so hard that her ears rang and she couldn’t see straight.
He told her that if she made a sound, he would kill Mandy right then and there. She knew he was not bluffing. His eyes glittered in the dark, and she felt she was falling into those eyes, into the black pit that was the hole where her soul should be.
Uncle Andrew shoved Hazel back on the bed and Mandy gained her feet and leapt up beside her. Mandy sunk her teeth into his wrist, shaking her little head from side to side.
He seemed to move slowly as he grasped the little dog. He twisted the dog’s neck, putting his strength into it. Hazel knew from a young age that wringing chicken necks was not as easy as it looked. It took strength. She screamed and tried to pull at his arms. The dull sound of Mandy’s neck snapping echoed through the room. Her small body went limp.
Uncle Andrew held up Hazel’s little friend. “This is what happens to noisy, bad animals. Do you understand, girl?”
She reached for Mandy, but he jerked the dog away and tossed her to the floor. Her body slid and came to rest under the window. Hazel kept her eyes on the dog as she lay there. The moonlight glinted on Mandy’s dead black eyes.
Later, her uncle left and she was alone with her dog. As she knelt and cradled Mandy, she looked up to the sky, where one of the sisters at the convent school always pointed when she talked about heaven. The moon was a few days past full. It was enough light to see outside, if one were to go outside.
She knew Uncle Andrew would come looking for her, so she couldn’t pose as an orphan to the sisters who ran the city orphanage. But there was another way. She stole her aunt’s sewing scissors and cut off her braid. She carried the braid, her violin and Mandy out the back garden gate. She ran, throwing the braid into a neighbor’s rubbish can. She had to decide which way to go. She had to think. She was a child, and a bad one at that, but she knew that there were dangerous people on the streets. People who would harm her. She had to be cautious. Mandy’s body had no warmth left, but it did not smell and was not stiff. She knew it would be with time.
Hazel ran until she reached Esplanade Avenue and then followed it until she reached St. Louis Cemetery. If there were criminals lurking, they did not appear that night. The New Orleans water table was too high to bury bodies deep underground, lest a flood send the dead rising again. The cemetery wa
s filled with white crypts, most of them with family names carved over the small doors. They looked like little homes, miniature little mansions housing the bones of generations. She had always liked the look of them. She knew what was inside and that proper little girls didn’t like such things, but she couldn’t help herself.
One of the tombs had three shallow steps leading to the small door, and Hazel laid Mandy on the topmost step. The name on the tomb had been French, like so many family names in New Orleans, but she could not remember it afterward. Her own ancestors, the Dubois family, had come from France long ago. The tomb seemed like a good place for Mandy. She kissed her dog between her ears, stroked her fur and after a while, turned away.
Hazel now held her violin in the sunlight of the Steamboat Festival, but her hands had steadied. The thought of Mandy did not bring tears to her eyes. She would not cry. Or tremble.
She poured that night and all the other nights before and since into her instrument. It sang for her. It sang her fear, her hurt, her loss of Mandy and of something else she could not name. It sang her last moments of freedom, here in the sunlight, facing the muddy river. The piece was familiar to her, the round-bellied black notes on the page were old friends.
And when she finished playing, her eyes were dry and she felt a new ferocity inside. Anger was a sin, said the sisters at the convent school. But it would serve her today.
She followed her two fellow players off the stage. She watched from the corner of her eye as her uncle moved around to the side and headed for the back of the stage. He would be behind the stage a few moments after she stepped down. She pulled open her jacket and stuffed her violin and bow inside. Before her foot touched the bottom step, she pulled the bottom of the jacket through her belt, making a tight little pouch for the instrument.
“What is that you are doing?” said Mr. Augustus, looking at the bulge. The neck of the violin stuck up near Hazel’s ear and the bow stuck up even farther. She kept her eyes straight ahead, and as soon as she saw a clear path, she ran.
She knew her uncle had seen her. She was counting on it. She had a plan.
Thick clouds of black smoke poured from the twin smokestacks of the Delphia Queen, though the ship was docked and the engines should be barely running. The steamboat would be pulling away from the dock at sunset to start her slow cruise downriver. The smaller ships would go first, all of them lit with tiny gaslights. The grandest ship of all, the Delphia Queen, would bring up the rear, a band playing on deck and crowds waving from the riverbanks.
But Hazel thought it a good likelihood that the Delphia Queen would never make her voyage. As she drew closer, she thought that the engine was louder than it ought to have been. Halfway to the ship, she ducked between two game booths. She crept out to look for her uncle. He wasn’t there.
She kept low, scanning the crowd. She flinched at a loud crack, a gunshot. In a cleared area near the picnickers, a group of children and few young men were hopping madly, holding burlap sacks up to their waists. People on the sidelines yelled and whistled. A man to one side lowered the starting gun.
Then she spotted her uncle. He was too close, only a few booths away, but he had not seen her. He was looking away from her, toward the stage and then he turned in profile toward the sack race. Hazel bolted.
As she got closer to the steamboat, she noticed that men around it were running from place to place instead of walking calmly. Some were shouting. Something was wrong with the ship, just as the Professor had said. She wanted to run in the other direction, away from any danger, but she had to be brave. She might be small and afraid. She might even be running away. But she had to be brave. Like Mandy, who bit and fought until the end. Mandy had died for her, and Hazel would not allow her friend’s sacrifice to be in vain.
Hazel saw a boy lifting a sack of oranges. He turned and headed for the ship. Hazel hefted a potato sack and nearly bent over backwards, trying to balance the weight. She staggered for the ship, headed for one of two gangplanks. The closest gangplank was near the bow of the ship. A second one was down a thin pier that jutted out into the river and ran along the port side of the ship. That gangplank led to the stern of the ship. No one stopped her as she mounted the gangplank and set the sack down against a railing. She couldn’t see the boy who had gone before her, and had no idea where he might be so she could not follow.
But she saw Uncle Andrew. He was striding toward the ship, his eyes locked on hers. She looked away and took a step backward, bumping into a man who told her to get to work. She spun and fled around the bow of the ship and tore down the starboard deck, dodging and ducking to avoid the men who were running and yelling around her. For now, the ship was freshly painted and immaculately clean. Once years of crowds had walked over the polished boards and leaned on the railings, the ship would look like the others that moved up and down the river, weary and worn.
“She’s burning too hot!” shouted a man close by, startling Hazel. She leapt away and kept going.
“Captain knows!” yelled another.
From her uncle’s vantage point on the port side of the ship, she would be invisible until he was on board and circled around the bow, as she had. That was good. She ran hard and almost lost her footing as she turned the hard corner at the stern of the ship. She pulled herself to a stop. The red paddlewheel was still, and this part of the ship was quiet. Hazel crept until she could see both gangplanks and the whole port side of the ship. She adjusted her violin against her body. The feel of it was comforting.
Her uncle stood at the bottom of the far gangplank, pointing at the ship and talking to a man who blocked his way. She couldn’t hear her uncle, but she knew he was trying to frighten and intimidate the crew member. The man was slender and young, but Hazel liked him when she saw him point a finger at her uncle and say something that made his eyes bulge in fury.
Uncle Andrew forced himself past the man, ramming the man’s shoulder with his own. The crew member made for him, but one of his fellows held him back and said something. Both of them looked up at the ship, evaluating. The engine roared. It seemed to have a low sound that Hazel felt in her feet and stomach and a higher sound that was growing louder. The deep thrumming created waves of vibration that shook the ship. Her uncle vanished around the bow and Hazel made her move.
She pounded down the rear gangplank and ran up the pier, her heart racing. Once she reached the festival area, she tried to lose herself in the crowd. It was difficult, as people moved so slowly and she had to press against people or push her way through. It was impossible to both move quickly and be inconspicuous. Hazel decided for speed. She sprinted for the line of booths and ran behind them, toward the stage. She couldn’t take time to look for the Professor or Miss Sanchez. They might worry about her, but she would have to meet them at home.
Behind the booth for Mississippi Cotton Collective was an opening. A group of sweaty boys with hoops and sticks sat on the ground, resting from their game. She would run past them, past the stage, then through the scattered pavilions and be free.
“Hazel!” shouted a man’s voice. Before she could think, she had turned. Mr. Grey gestured frantically for her to come toward him. How had he known her name? She ducked past a row of elderly ladies, past the resting boys and sprinted for the stage.
There was an explosion, a flash, and Hazel felt herself flying for an instant before she crashed to the ground, her shoulder and hip taking the brunt of the impact. For an instant, it was strangely silent, and then the world went black.
Chapter 22
Felicia brushed a stray hair away with the back of her wrist and looked over the man on the hospital bed. He was one of the people injured when the stage at the Steamboat Festival had exploded. She had heard someone shout that the Delphia Queen’s engine had been overheating, and minutes later, an explosion had destroyed the stage. She had not stayed at the festival to see what happened to the steam
boat. Instead she helped with the injured and then left for the hospital with the third group of patients, knowing where she would be of the greatest use. She told the paramedics that she was a nurse and jumped into the ambulance before anyone could object. And once she had worked side by side with the Sisters of Mercy here at St. Cecilia’s Hospital, no one thought to question her credentials.
The jowly red-faced man in front of her slept, peaceful at last. His arm was in a splint and his cheek, which had a bad laceration, had been stitched. There had been no anesthesia.
Hearing the moaning of the injured and the screams of those in surgery made Felicia feel as if she had aged a decade in the hour she had been at the hospital. The surgeons had naturally ordered her from the room when they performed what passed for surgical procedures in this time. She had not objected. She would never forget those screams, not in a hundred years. They had been muffled by a heavy door, but it made no difference. She would have to ask Seamus if ether had been discovered yet and how to get hold of some. Something had to be done. The current methods were horrific.
Upon her arrival, she had tied a nurse’s apron on over her dress. But even with the apron, her dress would be ruined. Blood, mud and other fluids spattered her apron and some had soaked through. It felt wrong to be in unsterile clothing, but she had no alternative. It wasn’t as if she could obtain fresh scrubs or latex gloves. She had made sure to wash her hands with harsh lye soap after each patient, and the skin on her hands was tight and dry. The sisters may have looked askance at her for insisting on repeated washings, but she refused to compromise what little protection from infection she could offer her patients.
The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series) Page 16