by Jae
When Rika opened the mill's heavy door, darkness had fallen. Cold air hit her like a punch, and she shivered as the wind cut into her sweat-dampened cheeks. After the weave room's humidity, the dry winter air burned her lungs.
She tugged Jo against her side, hoping to protect her friend's thin body from the wind, and they set off for home.
If you can call it that. Rika slowed her steps to adjust to Jo's shuffle. Like most mill girls, they were renting a room in the crowded part of town east of Tremont Street.
"What did Mr. Macauley say to you this morning?" Jo asked when they paused to let a beer wagon rumble past. "He didn't catch you being late, did he?"
Rika lifted her skirt and stepped over a half-frozen puddle. "Don't fret. He just gave me an earful, that's all." She didn't want Jo to worry.
Candles flickering in the boarding house's narrow windows beckoned Rika, promising rest, warmth, and food, at least for a few hours. But when they crossed the street, half a dozen young women sat on the stairs or perched on the banister, bundled up in their coats.
"What are you doing outside?" Rika asked. "Don't tell me there's vermin again?" Her scalp itched at the memory of last summer's lice, and the thought of again finding tiny teeth marks on her brown bread made her stomach roil.
"No," one of the women answered, shivering. "Too cold even for vermin. Betsy is inside, talking to her gentleman friend. She's giving each of us a penny so that they can have the parlor to themselves for an hour, and we don't want to be cooped up in our rooms."
While Rika longed for some fresh air too, she worried about Jo catching a cold, so she led her inside and they climbed the creaking stairs.
Before they reached their third-story room, Rika heard Mary-Ann shout, "It's my turn."
"But I got to it first," Erma answered.
Not again. Rika was sick and tired of the old argument. She opened the door. "Stop squabbling. Let Jo have the washbowl first."
"That's all right." Jo sank onto the bed she shared with Rika. The small room lacked other places to sit. "I think it's your turn anyway."
Huffing, Erma retreated from the washbasin. "I'm going down to write a letter home."
Rika folded her coat and apron and set them on the trunk next to their bed. Without looking at Jo or Mary-Ann, she slipped out of her bodice, skirt, and petticoat. Goose bumps pebbled her flesh in the chill air. She stepped toward the washstand and ran a wet cloth over her pale skin.
After slipping into her only clean skirt, she shoved her feet back into the worn shoes. They no longer seemed too large, as they had this morning. When she had first started working in the mill, Jo had taken her under her wing and taught her to buy shoes one size too big so they'd still fit her swollen feet in the evening.
The ringing of the supper bell made Rika jerk. "Hurry, Jo!" She passed her friend the washcloth and laid out a clean skirt and bodice for Jo.
"You go on." Jo didn't move from the bed. "I'm not hungry."
Not hungry? Rika eyed her slight friend. Jo had lost weight during the last few weeks, and she couldn't afford to miss meals. "Jo," she said. "Come on. Just a few bites."
"No. Go on." Jo shooed her away. "I'll stay and read my letters."
The sound of feet dashing down the stairs made Rika look up. If she didn't hurry, her place at the table and most of the food would be gone. "I'll try to bring you some bread and cheese. Are you sure you'll be fine? I can stay and keep you company."
"No, go."
"Promise you'll go see a doctor. They got lady doctors at the hospital now."
"What would they tell me? To rest? To quit working in the mill?" Jo shook her head. Her voice was calm, as if she had long ago accepted her situation. "I can't afford either."
Rika drilled torn fingernails into her palm. "But maybe there's a tonic or syrup that can help."
"I can't waste money on that. I need every dime when I go west. Now go, or the others will eat your supper."
"But —"
Jo opened her mouth to interrupt, but coughs cut off her words. Her face flushed, and she waved Rika away.
With one last glance, Rika hurried to the dining room.
Tin plates clattered, and chairs scraped over the floor. Girls and women shouted up and down the three long tables, adding to the roaring in Rika's ears. She squeezed in between two girls and snatched the last potato. The first few forkfuls of beans landed in her stomach without her taking the time to chew thoroughly or enjoy the taste.
At breakfast and lunch, the factory bell hurried them along, and Rika gobbled down her food to satisfy her growling stomach. Now she found it hard to eat slowly. Minutes later, she mopped up the bacon grease on her plate with a piece of brown bread and became aware of the other women's conversation.
"Did you hear about poor Phoebe?" Mary-Ann asked.
The women shook their heads and stared at Mary-Ann.
Rika listened but said nothing. She used the others' distraction to slip a slice of bread into her pocket.
"What happened?" Erma asked.
"She got her hair caught between a belt and one of the shafts," Mary-Ann said. "Scalped her from forehead to the back of her neck."
The girl next to Rika gasped.
Rika touched her own hair. Factory rules demanded that the women wear their hair up and tucked under a scarf, but still accidents happened. Last week, a weaver had lost a finger in the machinery, and the month before, an unsecured shuttle put out a girl's eye.
"I'm taking up a collection for the hospital fees," Mary-Ann said. "So if you can spare a few pennies..." She looked at the other women.
Rika reached into her apron and rubbed her thumb over a coin in her pouch. Five cents that could help fulfill her dream: getting out of the cotton mill and finding a place to call her own, maybe running a seamstress's shop or a small boarding house. Five cents that could help Jo, buying better food or a syrup for her cough. She clamped her hand around the coin until it dug into her skin.
"Hendrika?" Mary-Ann tilted her head. She held out her hand, fingers cupped around the coins the other women had given for Phoebe.
Sighing, Rika handed over the nickel.
* * *
When Rika returned to their room a few minutes later, Jo was sitting up in bed, slumped against the pillow. Her eyes were closed, and an unhealthy flush painted her normally pale cheeks.
"Jo?" Rika whispered, then remembered that Jo wouldn't hear her. She raised her voice and repeated, "Johanna?"
Jo opened her eyes and smiled. She always smiled, but Rika knew it was a mask. Her friend was suffering. "How was supper?"
"Good." No use telling Jo about Phoebe's accident. It would upset her and cause another coughing spell. Rika reached into her apron pocket. "Here. I brought you some bread." The bread's aroma evoked childhood memories of being forced to leave the warmth of her father's bakery and walking Boston's frozen streets, peddling her father's wares until her feet blistered. Back then, she'd dreamed of a better life, of a place where she belonged and was loved for who she was, not just how much bread she sold. She shoved the thought away. Love was a childish dream. All she wanted was to own a home, no matter how small, that no one could take away from her.
Jo took the slice of bread and held it in her hand without eating. "Thank you."
Rika's gaze fell on Jo's feet hanging over the side of the bed as if Jo hadn't possessed the strength to take off her boots. Rika sat on the bed and grasped one foot. Cotton dust colored the worn boots a mousy gray, and Rika tried to give them a good polish with the edge of her apron.
Groaning, Jo lifted her head. "Don't bother. You won't get these old things to shine."
Rika gave up, unlaced the boots, and took them off to make Jo more comfortable. "Want me to help you wash up some?"
"I'll do it in a little while, when I get up to use the necessary." Jo pulled herself higher up in bed. "For now, I just want to rest a bit and read my letters."
"Read?" Rika looked at the creased pages and the battered env
elopes in Jo's hands. "You mean recite by heart. Don't you get tired of reading them over and over again?"
"Tired?" Jo pressed a handkerchief to her lips. "Never. Listen to this: 'The land here is lush and green, and the air smells of pine, spring grass, and apple blossoms. I do believe that you will find it a real healthy climate when you come to live with me.' Doesn't that sound heavenly? How could I get tired of it?" Her hand with the letter sank to the bed, and she sighed. "Just one more week until I catch the train west."
"Then why are you sighing?" Rika asked. It had sounded like a sigh of resignation, not one of longing. "I thought you were looking forward to marrying your Philip."
"Hendrika Aaldenberg! You know quite well that his name is Phineas." This time, a real smile curled the edges of Jo's lips. It was a game they had often played in the past few months, meant to lift Jo's spirits and ease Rika's gnawing worries about Jo's health. "Of course I'm looking forward to going west and becoming his wife. I just wish you would change your mind and come with me."
The conversation was as old as Rika's pretending not to remember the name of Jo's future husband, wrapping around them like a worn coat that comforted with its warmth and familiarity. "Go west and marry a man I don't even know?" Rika shook her head. An image of Willem flickered through her. She shivered as she again felt the gaze of his bloodshot eyes staring at her as if she were a stranger while she helped him to bed. "He could turn out to be a drunkard or —"
"Or," Jo interrupted and coughed. "Or he could turn out to be the man of your dreams."
"I haven't dreamed of any man." Rika placed Jo's boots next to the bed. "But I hope you become real happy with Paul."
Jo held her ribs, this time from laughter, not coughing. "Phineas."
* * *
Rika rolled around and pulled the thin quilt over her ears. Nights in the boarding house were as noisy as days in the weave room. Jo coughed and wheezed next to her, and in the other bed, Erma snored more loudly than Rika's brother and half siblings had ever managed.
With a grunt, Rika turned to face the wall. The lumpy straw ticking beneath her rustled.
The snoring stopped for a second, then resumed twice as loudly.
Rika wanted to yell. How would she make it through a fourteen-hour workday without a wink of sleep? She threw her boot across the room. It thumped against the wall above Erma's head.
At last, the snoring ended.
The popping and chirping in Rika's ears never stopped, though. Sometimes at night, when everything was quiet, she still heard the incessant clattering of the looms. If she wasn't careful, she'd end up as hard of hearing as Jo.
Finally, long after midnight, Jo's coughing ceased, and Rika fell into an exhausted sleep.
* * *
"Hey, Hendrika!"
A hand on her shoulder pulled Rika from sleep. She blinked open sleep-crusted eyes and stared into the semi-darkness of the room.
Erma stood next to her. The glow of the kerosene lamp created a halo around her head. "I think this," Erma set one dusty boot on top of Rika's chest, "belongs to you. And 'cause you were so busy throwing boots tonight, you and Johanna slept right through the bell. You better hurry if you want to make it to the mill on time."
"Darn!" Rika shoved back the quilt. The boot dropped to the floor, and she scrambled after it. Her tired arms and legs groaned as she struggled into her petticoat. "Jo!" She pulled up her skirt. "Get up! We can't be late again!"
Jo was still bundled up under the covers. One arm stuck out beneath the extra blanket she had heaved on top of herself.
"Jo!" Rika gave her a shove.
Jo didn't move.
The slice of bread lay untouched on the trunk next to the bed. In the low light of the kerosene lamp, Rika caught a glance of a crumpled handkerchief, dotted with brownish spots and tinged with the gray lint that had accumulated in Jo's lungs. Hastily, Rika closed the buttons on her bodice and bent to shake Jo awake.
Her hand gripped a cold shoulder.
The coldness raced up her arm and through the rest of her body. An icy lump formed in her stomach. "Jo?" she whispered. "Jo, please!"
No answer.
With trembling fingers, Rika rolled Jo over and stared into the face that had lost its feverish color. "Oh, no. No, no, no." Rika pressed both hands to her mouth. "One more week. Just one more week. Then you get out of here."
Tears burned her eyes. Jo would never start her new life.
She stroked the stiff fingers. They were still clamped around one of Phineas's letters.
"Hendrika, Jo, come on," Erma called, already halfway out the door. "If you're late again, you're gonna be fired."
Rika didn't move from the bed. She slid the creased paper from Jo's hand, folded the letter, and returned it to its envelope.
Train Station
Boston, Massachusetts
March 7, 1868
"NO, MA'AM." THE man behind the counter shook his head. "I can't give you a refund on this ticket."
"But you don't understand." Rika held out the ticket. A plume of dark gray coal smoke rose from the locomotive huffing and puffing its way out of the railroad station. Soot tickled Rika's throat, and she coughed. "The ticket is valid, and I need the money."
"No refund," he shouted over a whistle blast and pointed at a small mark stamped on the ticket. "See? You have to either use the ticket by boarding the train next Friday or let it go to waste."
Rika stared at the square piece of paper in her hand. So Jo's beau hadn't trusted her not to turn the ticket in for cash. And why should he? He doesn't know her from Eve. Only a fool trusted strangers.
She shoved the ticket into the pocket of her thin wool coat, nodded a thank-you, and walked away.
What now? How else could she pay for Jo's funeral? Her savings and Jo's would cover it, but then how would she continue to pay rent now that she'd lost her job?
Rika dashed across the street.
A horse let out a startled whinny and veered to the left, almost colliding with a cart.
"For heaven's sake, pay attention, Miss!" the driver of the brougham yelled.
"Sorry," Rika mumbled and hurried away. She stumbled along streets and alleys.
Where to? Erma and Mary-Ann couldn't help. They'd already given half their wages to Phoebe, the scalped girl. Even if they had money, Rika doubted they would help. They'd been Jo's friends, not Rika's, and now that Jo was dead, they wanted to save their money for the living. Everyone had liked smiling Jo, but Rika knew her own gap-toothed grin didn't warm any hearts.
Certainly not Mrs. Gillespie's. When Rika reached the boarding house, her landlady dragged a carpetbag through the front door and set down a slender box next to it.
Rika trudged up the steps. She squinted at the box with its familiar purple and green stains. Mama's box of paints! Rika glared at Mrs. Gillespie. "What are you doing? These are my things!"
Mrs. Gillespie dropped Rika's old pair of shoes onto the box. "The mill is sending over half a dozen Irish girls, and I need the space."
Trembling, Rika clutched her fingers together. "You can't just put me out on the street."
"I can't afford to keep you on if you're no longer paying rent," Mrs. Gillespie said.
Bile crept up Rika's throat. She swallowed. "I'll pay. Really, I have enough to pay for a month."
"And then what?" Mrs. Gillespie crossed her arms and peered at Rika from her position on the top stair. "How will you pay the month after that, now that you lost your place in the mill?"
So she had heard already. Rika's shoulders slouched.
"Good luck, Miss Aaldenberg." The landlady turned and stepped into the boarding house.
"No, no, no, you can't just —"
The door swung closed between them.
The sound echoed through Rika's mind, and a thousand panicked thoughts ricocheted through her, leaving behind a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her knees gave out. She sank onto the cold stairs, sat between the carpetbag and the paint box, and cradle
d her head in her hands.
* * *
"Amen." The pastor closed his Bible, nodded at Rika and the gravediggers who waited nearby, and walked away.
Rika stood alone, staring down into the open grave. Oh, Jo. Why is life so unfair sometimes?
When one of the gravediggers cleared his throat behind her, she gave herself a mental kick. No use lamenting over things she couldn't change. She said her final good-bye to Jo and left the cemetery.