by Cathy Gohlke
Only this day the hymns were about determination to forgive and new beginnings. The sermon echoed the theme, both in the new year and in individual lives. The reverend called for belief in a God who loves and pursues, a God willing and eager to forgive and to accept all into relationship with Him through Christ—a relationship that fully embraces.
He spoke of a woman named Rahab—a harlot and spy who was an ancestor of Jesus. Maureen felt her face flame and glanced at the listeners beside her to see if they’d get up and leave at what must surely be blasphemy. But they stayed.
And then he told of Bathsheba, who’d slept with King David in an adulterous relationship, saying that she, too, was in the bloodline of Christ. She listened for murmurs of complaint but heard only an uncomfortable shifting in seats among the congregation.
He listed five women in all, women of strange and suspect character in the eyes of the world—a scheming widow, a harlot, a foreigner, an adulteress, an unmarried teen mother—but women God loved, forgave, and honored in the maternal bloodline of His Son.
It was not a picture that coincided with her image of the blessed Mother or the demanding, damning God she knew.
A wild Protestant tale, surely! What did he say—that once they’d sought forgiveness and reconciliation, God blotted out their sins as though they’d never been? That He loved them as daughters?
Could He possibly love such as these—these women who lived the picture of my own desperation? And if He did, if He does . . . could He love me?
But the idea was so big, so preposterous, so presumptuous.
Where is the beatin’? Where is the ramrod of shame? Maureen opened her eyes. Reverend Peterson lifted high his arms, invoking the blessings of God. Where is the wrath? she asked again as if to trip him up, as if to cause the hidden rod to fall.
But he called for the passing of the peace—a welcome shaking of hands and embracing of parishioners and strangers alike, an event unknown to Maureen and Katie Rose. Maureen stayed seated, though Olivia and Mrs. Melkford, even Curtis Morrow and Joshua, reached out to her and Katie Rose. And then, when she thought she’d survived all the foreign impossibilities, the reverend called for Communion.
“Must you be Protestant?” Katie Rose whispered to Mrs. Melkford as ushers shepherded people forward by pews to the Communion rail.
Mrs. Melkford shook her head. “It’s open to everyone, everyone who believes that Jesus is their Savior.”
Maureen sat back, mortified. I cannot go. Even if He could save me from what I’ve been—like He did those women—He can’t change what I’ve failed to do for Eliza, for Alice. A sob escaped her throat; she felt Katie Rose’s elbow in her ribs. She closed her eyes, and the faces of her friends loomed before her. No, He can’t want me, can’t save me. And I can’t save myself!
When the usher came to their row and opened the little gate at the end of their pew, those on either side of her stood. Maureen didn’t know what to do. She pulled her knees to the side to allow Katie Rose and Joshua to pass.
“Get up,” Katie Rose hissed and pinched her. “You’ll shame them!”
And so Maureen did. She filed to the center aisle behind Mrs. Melkford. But when they reached the altar rail, just before they were to kneel to receive the bread and wine, Maureen turned and, eyes to the floor, followed the group of men and women who were leaving the rail—those she’d seen approach the Almighty to eat His body and drink His blood, no matter that there’d been no talk of confession beforehand, nor so much as the sign of the cross made after. She followed them back to her own pew, struggled with the catch on the little gate at its end until an usher came to help her, then slid in and kept her head down. She could not hold back the tears betraying her shame.
You’re not my Lord, and I’ve no right to partake. Oh, God! Why do You call me to this possibility and then send me away in public humiliation?
To Maureen’s relief, Katie Rose did not interrogate her about why she’d not partaken in Communion. Her sister alternately bubbled and fumed throughout the afternoon and evening about Olivia Wakefield’s smart hat and stylish fur coat and her invitation to an undoubtedly lavish New Year’s dinner—a dinner she boasted she would have gladly and thoroughly enjoyed had Maureen not spoiled everything by “being impossibly rude in church.”
By the time Maureen walked into work on Monday morning, she never wanted to see or hear of Olivia Wakefield again.
The store opened on schedule despite a heavy snow that began in the early morning hours. Maureen stood anxiously behind her counter, freshening her display, ten minutes before the bell rang and the doors opened. She noticed that the girls who’d staffed the floor last Thursday were on duty. No one else is missin’. Oh, Eliza, Alice—where are you? What’s become of you?
“Good morning, Miss O’Reilly.” Mrs. Gordon stopped by Maureen’s counter. “I trust you have sufficiently recovered from your sudden illness.” Her tone was snide.
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m much better today.” Maureen looked away, wondering if Mrs. Gordon helped to choose the girls who disappeared, if she was an integral part of the racket—for she’d come to think of it as just that—or if the woman was simply a miserable employee who ignorantly pressured working girls under the orders of the store’s management. But you work with management; how could you not know? How could you know and turn a blind eye? But isn’t that what I’ve done—because I’m afraid?
Maureen didn’t try to communicate with the girls at lunch. She did not think it her imagination that the room was quieter, the girls more subdued and less talkative than usual. Nor did she think she imagined that they were all watched more carefully than usual by the floor supervisors. Even Mr. Kreegle walked through the room once, and Maureen felt certain he searched the faces and posture of the young women. For what? Signs of knowin’? Is knowin’ grounds for being stolen away or dismissed, or is there somethin’ else they’re lookin’ for?
By the end of the workday, Maureen’s nerves were ground raw and her head ached. She gathered her hat and cloak and purse from the employee cloakroom and headed for the stairwell, determined to take the trolley for once.
Such a relief it will be to ride through the snowy streets rather than plow my way on foot! I hope Katie Rose is home early enough to fire the stove and lay our tea.
Intent on her plans, she didn’t realize until she’d reached the door that it had been closed, that Mr. Kreegle and Mrs. Gordon stood sentinel, cross-armed before it, or that the other girls hung back, whispering nervously.
“In a hurry tonight, Miss O’Reilly?” Mr. Kreegle challenged.
“It’s snowin’,” she said lamely, taken by surprise. “I’m anxious to reach the trolley.” She stepped back, wishing she had the courage to press forward.
“You’ll need to delay your travel plans, miss. You all need to delay travel plans.” He barked, “Get in line and wait your turn.”
Maureen drew in her breath. What can he be thinkin’? Neither she nor the other women had perceived there was a line, but they dutifully and quickly formed one.
Mr. Kreegle cleared and raised his voice. “There’s been a rash of thefts from the store counters—a thing Darcy’s will not tolerate, certainly not from our own employees.” He nodded toward Mrs. Gordon; she stepped before the door. He made his way down the line, glaring at each young woman in turn. “From now on, before you leave each evening, purses, coats, and pockets will be searched.”
A rush of indignation followed by a whisper of fear swept through the ranks.
“Let’s begin with you.” Mr. Kreegle spoke to the girl behind Maureen. “Mrs. Gordon?”
“Open your purse and turn out your pockets,” Mrs. Gordon ordered the terrified young woman.
When the search yielded nothing, she proceeded to the next clerk.
Why did they bypass me? Maureen could not imagine.
“Feeling left out, Miss O’Reilly?” Mr. Kreegle asked. She hated the way he smiled at her. “Shall I search you myself?”
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br /> Maureen knew her face flamed, but she summoned her courage. “I’ve nothin’ to hide, nothin’ at all.”
“Mrs. Gordon, perhaps you could search Miss O’Reilly. She has a trolley to catch.” He snickered, stepping back, and a nervous twitter sped through the line.
“Open your purse,” the floor supervisor ordered. “Turn out your pockets.”
Maureen did as she was bid; both were empty of anything but her personal belongings. Mrs. Gordon lifted her brows and proceeded down the line.
“Why are you holding your cloak, Miss O’Reilly?” Mr. Kreegle challenged loudly. All nervous chatter stopped.
“I—I’ve simply not put it on,” Maureen stammered.
“Every other young woman is dressed to go into the cold.” He stepped closer. “Why, pray tell, are you different?”
“I’m not—”
“Hand me your cloak,” he ordered.
Maureen, angry to be doubted, angry that any of the women would be subjected to his sneers or play for power, thrust her cloak into his arms.
As he lifted her cloak, Maureen intuited rather than knew he would find something. ’Tis a ruse—a play upon the stage! He’s planted somethin’.
Every eye turned upon Mr. Kreegle’s searching, probing fingers, and Maureen knew she was not the only one who cringed at the way he clawed her cloak. He’s planted somethin’ and now he can’t find it. Maureen nearly smirked in return, until an unholy light came into the man’s eyes. Her heart sank.
“What have we here?” Maureen knew he feigned surprise as he fingered the hem. He manipulated something through the lining of the cloak, right to one of the pockets, until he was able to work it through a hole that she knew for certain had not been there that morning. “A hole in your pocket. Ingenious but futile, Miss O’Reilly.” He held up the turned-out pocket and pulled a pearl necklace from its hiding place in the lining, displaying it high for all to see.
Horrified gasps washed over the group, then silence.
Maureen felt her head spin. “’Tisn’t mine.”
Mr. Kreegle smiled. “I’m sure none of us ever suspected it was.” He hefted the cloak. “I believe we’ve found our thief, Mrs. Gordon.”
“I never took—” Maureen could barely catch her breath.
“Save your lies for the police, Miss O’Reilly. The rest of you may go.”
Maureen struggled against the growing tightness in her throat and chest as the women rushed past her and out the opened door, most not daring to look her in the eye.
“Close the door on your way out, Mrs. Gordon.”
Mrs. Gordon flashed an uncertain glance between Maureen and Mr. Kreegle. “Shall I telephone the police?”
“Well, let me see.” Mr. Kreegle walked close to Maureen, who instinctively stepped back. But he circled her, walking ever closer. “A police report would lead to trial. A verdict of theft would mean deportation as likely as imprisonment in this case, I imagine.”
Maureen’s senses flared.
“Now, I wonder . . . would that be deportation of Miss O’Reilly alone, or would that include her sister—her young, impressionable sister? What is her name? Ah, Katie Rose O’Reilly, employed by Triangle Waist Factory, I believe.”
Maureen felt a gnawing terror rise from the pit of her stomach, swirling with the knowledge that she’d never given this man her sister’s name or place of employment. “I didn’t take it. I don’t know how it got there, but I swear I did not take it.” She turned to Mrs. Gordon. “Please, you must believe me.”
Mrs. Gordon looked away, uncomfortable, Maureen thought, for the first time.
“But deportation won’t be necessary, will it, Miss O’Reilly?”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, please.”
“No, I don’t believe we’ll need the police,” he continued as if Maureen had never spoken. “I believe we can come to some agreement with our pretty little orphaned thief.” He dropped his smile and all pretense of mercy as he circled Maureen a second time, pulling a long red lock of hair from her bun and trailing it with his finger down the back of her neck.
Maureen closed her eyes at his touch and held her breath, felt the air being sucked from her throat, felt her chest constrict.
“You may leave, Mrs. Gordon. I’ll take care of this . . . situation.”
“If you’re certain?” Mrs. Gordon asked, hesitating at the door.
He pulled a pin and another tendril from Maureen’s bun, tracing it down the other side of her neck, fingering the collar of her shirtwaist. “Quite certain.”
Memories of Julius Orthbridge barging through her door late at night bullied their way into Maureen’s brain. She felt the world and darkness closing in, began the intentional numbing of her heart. She heard the door open, sensed Mrs. Gordon passing through and with her any feeble hope of protection.
“We can, no doubt, reach an understanding,” the man crooned, self-assured, arrogant, continuing his pulling of pins from Maureen’s hair.
She could not reply but felt the dam behind her eyes begin to overflow. With each pull of the pin, he undressed her mind and all its bulwarks. Her upswept hair, symbol of refinement and womanhood, tumbled to her shoulders, leaving her naked, exposed of spirit.
The trickle down her cheek seemed only to inspire him. “We’ve much to discuss, don’t we, Miss O’Reilly?” The timbre of his voice was oily, slick, like the rodents along the wharf in Dublin. His breath foul, smelling—tasting—of rotting fish heads and onions piled behind her uncle’s pub. “Such a pretty face.” His finger traced her jaw, her neck; his hand began its descent.
Maureen cried out, but he pressed himself against her and laughed. “Go ahead and scream. There’s no one to hear you, little Paddy. No one to save you.” He pulled at the buttons of her waist.
The horror and truth of his words drove a knife into her heart.
And then, unbidden, came words she’d read in Mrs. Melkford’s Bible: “When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.”
She jerked away.
Kreegle laughed and jerked her back. “Feisty, are we? That’s all right. I don’t mind a little fight in a woman.”
“Help!”
Kreegle laughed again.
From the recesses of Maureen’s brain came another Scripture she’d heard in Mrs. Melkford’s church: “For the Lord your God is he that goeth with you, to fight for you against your enemies, to save you.”
You would fight for me?
As Kreegle ripped her buttons, a new strength flowed into Maureen’s heart, through her core, and out into her limbs. She clenched her fists and pushed them both at once up and into Kreegle’s chin, knocking him backward.
He regained his footing, and Maureen saw a familiar succession sweep through his eyes—anger, challenge, then lust with the thrill of the hunt, the determination to overpower his prey.
But refusal, rage, and a bewildered vestige of hope raced through her calves and into her pointed-toe boots, straight to his shins.
He swore, grabbed her again, and pinned her arms behind her. She kneed him, once and sharply, in his groin.
Kreegle doubled over but grabbed Maureen’s skirts, pulling her to the floor with him. She kicked him in the face, a toe to his eye, a sharp heel to his nose. He covered his face and she kicked his hand, his head, the blood staining red through his thinning hair.
Maureen scrambled backward, across the floor and to her knees, her feet. Unmindful of her purse, heedless of her cloak, she wrestled with the knob of the door and, throwing it open, raced down the stairs and out into the freezing night.
“I’m no longer a powerless village girl, but an independent, workin’, wage-earnin’ woman of New York City. And if I’m to be deported, I shall go havin’ had my say, wearin’ my dignity.” Maureen spoke the words aloud as she marched to work on Tuesday, hoping for the courage she feigned. Her arms sore and bearing bruises from Mr. Kreegle’s grip, her head weary from the cold and from the raw throat building the
re, she trooped on, determined to face her accusers.
Katie Rose had offered little sympathy at the loss of her cloak and purse, certain that whatever had happened, Maureen had brought it on herself. “You’ve no sense of propriety! After your behavior at church on Sunday, I’m surprised at nothin’! Besides, your tea is cold, and it’s your own fault for bein’ late. I’ll not heat it up again.” Katie Rose had turned her back on a shivering Maureen.
Maureen had laughed, very near hysteria, at the notion that she should care about the temperature of her tea after what she’d been through with the demon at the store—the demon she’d fought and bested at his own game. She’d laughed until Katie Rose had stomped out, slamming the door, on her way down the hall to the toilet.
And then Maureen had lain awake half the night, into the wee hours, alternately shivering in fear and wondering at the voice that had come into her head, the surprising flow of strength to fight that slime of a man. Most surprising of all was its clarity of vision and solidarity with her own spirit.
She longed to talk with someone, but who? She wondered if she should have confided in Katie Rose—about Mr. Kreegle, about her suspicion of Drake Meitland or her dread of Jaime Flynn, about her worry for the women who’d disappeared, about the new voice in her head. But Maureen had heaved a sigh and turned over. She’s too young to hear such things. Someday, when it’s settled, when we’ve made our way and have nothin’ to fear, perhaps I’ll tell her then—two grown women, together. But it’s a burden she should not have to bear now. What could she do but worry and fear? And how will I protect her?
Maureen had no idea what to do but knew she must stand up for herself. Fighting back against Mr. Kreegle had been the greatest revelation of her life. She could fight. She might not always win, but she could stand for herself, and although she dared not think that the Lord had accepted her, cared about her, He’d done something magnificent for her in bringing those Scriptures to mind, in infusing her limbs with strength beyond her own. He’d stood with her against evil. No one less could have done such a thing.