Indigo Christmas

by Jeanne Dams

  The doorbell rang and Hilda ran to answer it. The woman at the door looked much as Hilda’s mother used to look back in Sweden: tattered, worn from work, but proud. Her black shawl was darned, but clean. Her boots were neatly polished, if wet with snow, but her hair was roughly and hastily pinned up. Her face bore an expression compounded of worry, anger, and fear.

  “Mrs. Murphy, come in and be warm. Let me take your shawl. Norah is fine. She is asleep, I think maybe.”

  “You never left her alone!” There was hostility in her voice.

  “No! My—Mrs. O’Rourke and Eileen O’Hara are with her. Mrs. O’Rourke has had many children and is capable, I think. You will want to go straight up to Norah?”

  Mrs. Murphy nodded stiffly, and Hilda led the way.

  “I am sorry we did not let you know that she was here,” said Hilda. The remark met a wall of silence. Hilda tried again. “I think she came to me without thinking, because I have investigated—” No, it wasn’t wise to mention crime. Mrs. Murphy might think that Hilda believed Sean to be guilty. “Because she and I have found out—”

  “You’ve led my daughter into trouble before now, with your pryin’ into what’s no business of a good girl! And now she comes runnin’ to you instead of her mother!”

  “Mrs. Murphy, I cannot help where she runs! It is not fair that you—”

  The door to the spare room opened and Mrs. O’Rourke stepped into the hall, hands on hips. “And I’d be thankin’ you both not to shout!” she said in a furious whisper. “Savin’ your presence, madam. I’ve just got her to sleep, and she needs the rest. Maureen, you can come in, but mind you don’t wake her. She’ll wake soon enough when the babe gets impatient.”

  Mrs. Murphy went in, Mrs. O’Rourke shut the door, and Hilda, feeling thoroughly snubbed, went down to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. She was trying hard not to lose her temper. Mrs. Murphy was frightened and upset. Her rudeness was understandable. And Mrs. O’Rourke—well, she was a part of Mrs. Murphy’s world. Plainly they knew each other well.

  They both belonged to the class, to the world Hilda had left forever.

  She took an obscure pleasure in the menial duty of tea-making.

  When she had delivered it upstairs, where it was received with thanks but scant ceremony, she went back down to the parlor and collapsed into a chair with a long sigh.

  “Mmm?” said Patrick, half-waking. “Norah’s ma get here?”

  “She is upstairs. I am very tired.”

  “Why don’t ye get back to bed, darlin’? I can stay here, in case somebody needs somethin’.”

  “I think first I should phone Aunt Molly. or perhaps you should. It is nearly morning, and it is important for Sean to get out of jail without delay. Norah needs him.”

  Patrick sat up. “Darlin’ girl, nothin’s goin’ to happen about that till a judge is awake, and maybe a lawyer, maybe the mayor. Even Uncle Dan can’t make ’em hurry up in the middle of the night. It’s not yet gone five. You go to sleep and let me do the worryin’ for a bit. Here, you’re not cryin’?”

  Hilda dashed the tears from her cheeks. “It is—you are—I do not know why I am crying, but I will go to bed.” Hilda dared not say that she was crying out of sheer relief. She would break down completely if she talked about the long years before her marriage, when she had had no one to take charge, to look after her, give her respite. For years she had worked hard, carried her own burdens and often those of others. Now there was Patrick. Patrick, who would shoulder the load when it was too much for her, who would tell her what to do when she was floundering.

  He kissed her, then pushed her toward the stairs. “Off with ye, then.”

  Of course, she thought as she climbed the stairs, he often told her what to do when she neither needed nor wanted to be told. Then they would argue, and she would do what she wanted. Never yet had she admitted that he was sometimes right.

  There was no sound from the guest room save for faint snores. Mrs. O’Rourke must have fallen asleep, Hilda assumed. It appeared that all was well so far.

  Weary to the bone, and secure knowing that Patrick was ready for an emergency, Hilda tumbled into bed and was instantly asleep.

  “Darlin’ girl, it’s sorry I am to wake you, but there’s things I think you’ll maybe want to do.”

  Hilda opened her eyes and looked blearily at Patrick. Just for a moment, she had no idea where she was, who she was, who this man was. She had been dreaming of a pleasant summer day. Why was the room so gray and cold?

  “I brought coffee.” Patrick brought it close to her nose, and the mists began to clear.

  “I did not—I was—what time is it?” She sat up and reached for the cup.

  “Gone nine. You haven’t slept near enough, but things are movin’ and I need to be off.”

  “Off? Where?”

  “To talk to me friends about Sean. And speakin’ of Sean—he’s here.”

  Awareness came flooding back, and Hilda groaned. “Sean. The police. Norah—the baby! How are they?”

  Patrick grimaced. “Nobody’ll tell me anything, just that ‘they’re doin’ fine,’ but I reckon nothing much has happened yet. Sean went in to see Norah, but they only let him stay for a minute.”

  “Of course! It is not proper for men to be there when a baby is coming! Patrick, this is good coffee, but I must get up.” She handed him the coffee cup and pushed back the covers. “Brrr!”

  Patrick handed her her robe. “I’m sorry there’s no fire, but Eileen’s been busy with Norah, and I’ve been busy with Sean.”

  “It does not matter. I am a Swede. I will dress quickly and come down. And do not let Sean leave before I can see him!”

  “No chance of that. He’s hanging about chewin’ his fingernails and lookin’ like a sick cow,” said Patrick with the casual rudeness of a relative. “I’ll go and see to the parlor fire, and then I’m off.”

  Hilda found Sean in the kitchen, and if he didn’t look exactly like a sick cow, there was a certain resemblance. The moment he saw Hilda, he rushed to her. “Is there any news? What’s happening?”

  “Nothing exciting is yet happening, if you mean Norah. Sit down, Sean. I want to talk to you.”

  He sat.

  “How much money did you steal, Sean?” She had decided shock was the best approach.

  He looked dully at her. “Steal? What do you mean?”

  “From the billfold.”

  “The—oh. It was empty. I’ve told everyone, over and over. Hilda, is she going to be all right? It’s taking a long time.”

  Hilda decided he was either the world’s best liar, or too tired and frazzled to tell anything but the truth. On the whole, she believed him, and she felt great relief. “Good. I did not think you would steal, but I know times are hard. And do not worry. It is normal for a first baby to take a long time. Now, what would you like for breakfast?”

  He looked at her as if he had forgotten what “breakfast” meant, but Hilda was hungry, so she fried eggs and made toast. She wasn’t the world’s best cook, but Mrs. O’Rourke was otherwise occupied. The meal was edible. Sean ate without noticing.

  “D’ye think I could go up and see her, just for a minute?”

  “No. They will tell us when it is time to send for the doctor. Sean, I want you to tell me exactly what happened, that day at the fire.”

  “The police’ve asked me that, fifty times anyway. There’s nothin’ to tell. We was workin’, and we saw the fire, and went to see what it was and if we could stop it. We couldn’t, so we watched it burn for a while, and then when the fire brigade came we went to our supper, and high time, too. And I saw the billfold lyin’ on the ground and picked it up, thinkin’ it belonged to somebody in our gang, or maybe one of the firemen. So I asked around, and it didn’t, and I took it home ’cause it was too nice to throw away. And that’s all.”

  “Where exactly did you find it?”

  “On the ground. I don’t know.”

  “Who told the police you had
it?”

  “How would I know that? Are you sure she’s all right?”

  Hilda gave it up. Perhaps when Norah’s ordeal was over, she could get some sense out of Sean, but meanwhile all his attention was focused on that room upstairs. “Come into the parlor if you have finished eating. It is more comfortable. I will go up and ask about Norah.”

  Norah was awake and uncomfortable, but not yet in severe pain. Mrs. O’Rourke and Mrs. Murphy were getting along famously, telling each other stories of babies over the years, difficult labors, easy labors—“just popped out like a little greased pig, bless his heart”—unexpected twins. Hilda wasn’t sure some of the stories were encouraging for Norah just now, but she didn’t dare say anything. This might be a room in her own house, but right now it was ruled by two other women. Little Eileen was sent on one errand after another, many of them unnecessary, to Hilda’s way of thinking. She suspected the cook was greatly enjoying her time of glory.

  Hilda stole away, resigned to her subordinate role, and told Sean all was well. Then she went to the telephone.

  “Aunt Molly? It is Hilda. Can you come? I must talk to you, and I cannot leave here.”

  Molly wasted no words. “I’ll be there in a wink,” she said, and hung up the phone.

  Of all the animals, the boy is the most unmanageable.

  —Plato, The Republic

  4th century B.C.

  6

  SO YOU SEE,” said Hilda, “I do not know what to do. Sean can tell me nothing—except that he did not steal any money money. I believe him. He is too to förvirrad tell a lie.? She leaned forward from her seat on the settee and waved her hands in the air in frustration. “I do not know the word in English! Thinking badly, anxious—”

  “‘Befuddled’ is the word you want, perhaps,” said Molly, smiling. “And just what one would expect from a young man about to become a father for the first time, let alone his other troubles. I’m glad you believe him innocent. That’s my own thinking, too. I don’t suppose Patrick has had time to find out anything from the police.”

  “He left just a little time ago. He is going to talk to firemen, too. But I want to know—how did you get Sean out of the jail so quickly?”

  Molly laughed. “’Twasn’t me did it. Patrick phoned us early to say the baby was on the way, so Mr. Malloy phoned the mayor. Got him out of bed, too. He phoned a friendly judge, and Mr. Malloy paid the bail, and there we are. Where is he, by the way?”

  “In the kitchen, I think. They will not allow him upstairs, and he will not sit still. I am glad he is free, but it has not helped very much,” said Hilda with a frown. “They will not let him see Norah, and he will not talk to me.”

  “But Norah knows he’s here, and that does her good. now, what is it you need of me?”

  “I do not know what to do next! I promised Norah I would help her, but I have done nothing, and I must stay here in the house because Norah might need me.”

  “My dear child! What Norah needs now is women experienced in childbirth, and she has them. Bridget O’Rourke is an excellent woman, and so is Norah’s mother, even if she is distracted with worry. You could help Norah far more by going out and looking into Sean’s dilemma.”

  Hilda tucked that new word away in her head, resolving to look it up when she had the chance.

  “What about your plan of talking to the boys?” Molly went on. “The snow has stopped. It’s beginning to melt, in fact. You should be able to get about.” She raised a hand as Hilda opened her mouth. “And if you’re still worried about Norah, I can stay here if you like. She’s in capable hands, but I could look in on her from time to time, and fetch the doctor when he’s needed. And calm Sean down a bit—if I can.”

  Hilda thought about that. “You might have to cook a meal. I think Mrs. O’Rourke will not leave Norah.”

  “I’ve cooked many a meal in my time, child. I’ve not forgotten how, nor have I got so grand I can’t turn a hand to help when it’s needed.”

  “Then I can—or wait. I have forgotten what day it is. So much has happened.”

  “Friday. December second.”

  “Then Erik will be in school. But he will be free at dinnertime—what you call lunch-time—and I can talk to him then. He will know which boys might be talking about this. And meanwhile I can go and talk to the boys at the Oliver Hotel. They hear people talk. Thank you, Aunt Molly!”

  Hilda hugged Molly and went to put on some old clothes, a cloak her mother had made for her years ago, and her rubber overshoes. For it would never do to call on bellboys in fine clothes and riding in a carriage. She would dress like Hilda Johansson, the servant, and she would walk on her own two feet.

  The weather was changing. There was a softness in the air, a heaviness that meant rain soon. The snow had changed to slush underfoot, and dirty gray slush at that, and dead brown oak leaves, pulled off the trees by the weight of the snow, lay in sodden piles. one fell off as Hilda passed under a tree and slid down her neck.

  New snow, Hilda had always thought, was beautiful. old snow, especially in a city, was nothing but a nuisance. As she started to cross Colfax Avenue (named after the South Bend resident and one-time vice President of the United States, the late Schuyler Colfax), a carriage passed close by her. The horses’ hooves splashed slush, and worse, up onto her skirt. Hilda pursed her lips in disgust, but she hadn’t been wet through, and the grime would contribute to the impression she wished to convey.

  Hilda knew several of the bellboys well. one named Andy— Hilda had never heard his surname—was a special friend of Erik’s. Andy was often to be found outside the hotel sweeping the sidewalk or shoveling a path or helping a guest into or out of a carriage. Today, though, he was nowhere to be seen.

  Hilda paused. Her old clothes suddenly seemed like not such a good idea, particularly now that they were splashed with muck. She had no wish to go into South Bend’s most elegant hotel smelling like a stable-hand. She approached the front door and stopped to peer through the glass panes.

  The door opened. “Yes, miss?” said a uniformed doorman. He was new since the last time Hilda had called at the hotel, and he obviously didn’t know her. His tone was just this side of rude. He reminded Hilda of every condescending butler she had ever known. She drew herself up and glared at the man.

  “I am Mrs. Cavanaugh,” she said, her accent as American as she could make it. “I wish to speak to one of your bellboys— Andy, I believe is his name. I would rather not come inside, since a bad-mannered coachman allowed his horses to ruin my skirt a moment ago.”

  Her manner caused the doorman to thaw a degree or two. “I’m sorry, miss—madam. We could have it cleaned for you if you are a guest of the hotel.”

  “It is no matter. I wore my oldest clothes because of the weather. And I am not a guest of the hotel. I live only a few blocks away.” She nodded her head toward the west, in the direction of the best neighborhood in town, at which the doorman’s eyebrows rose. “I will come in only as far as the bellboys’ office, if you will be good enough to send for Andy.”

  If the doorman shook his head at this eccentric young woman, he did it out of her sight. She looked like a beggar, but talked like a lady. Why a lady would want to talk privately to a bellboy he couldn’t imagine, but if she lived in that neighborhood, she was a person to be treated courteously. He nodded gravely and showed Hilda into the tiny room the bellboys called their office.

  It was lined with hooks where the boys hung their jackets and caps. They were not allowed to wear the jackets over their uniforms, even when they were assisting guests outside, because the jackets were often shabby. The boys made little money, unless guests were uncommonly generous with tips, and even then almost all the earnings went to help their families. From the looks of the garments hanging on the hooks, Hilda thought the families must be in need of a good deal of help. The poor, lately, were even poorer than usual—and with Christmas coming.

  “Oh,” said Andy in surprise when he skidded into the room after a
few minutes, natty in his uniform with its round hat. “It’s you, Miss Hilda. His nibs said as there was a lady to see me, name of Cavanaugh.”

  “My name is Cavanaugh now, Andy,” Hilda reminded him with a smile. “Surely Erik told you I am married.”

  “Oh. Yes, miss—madam. Sorry, madam. I forgot.”

  “‘Miss’ will be best, Andy. I am—I am in disguise.” She whispered the last word conspiratorially.

  Andy opened his eyes wide. “Are you on somebody’s trail, miss?”

  “In a way. It is difficult, because I do not know very much yet. Do you remember the barn fire a few weeks ago, Andy? In early November, it was, south of town.”

  The boy screwed up his face in concentration. “I don’t think so, miss. only—was that the one where somebody burned to death?”

  “It was. A hired man named Jenkins.”

  “Burned alive! That’d be a terrible way to die,” said Andy soberly. “Almost anything’d be better’n that.”

  “He maybe did not know what was happening to him,” said Hilda gently. “Patrick says when people die in a fire, they breathe in the smoke first and it makes them unconscious. So do not worry too much. But have you heard anyone talking about the fire or the man who was killed?”

  “Just the newsboys. They say—I mean the paper says—it was maybe a murder. Miss Hilda! Is that what you’re tryin’ to find out about?”

  “Yes, but do not talk so loud!”

  “Sorry, miss. But nobody can’t hardly hear what we say in here. So you want me to ask around, like I did before?”

  Andy and the other bellboys had gathered information for Hilda once before, very successfully.

  Hilda smiled. “You can read, can you not?”

  Andy drew himself up. “ ’Course I can read! I’m not stupid!” “I know that you are smart,” said Hilda a shade reprovingly. “But you went to school for only a little time, before your father—had his troubles.” Hilda had heard from Erik about Andy’s father. out of work, the man had a year or two ago taken to drink and gambling, nearly destroying the family before a job pulled him out of his despondency. Andy’s wages, meager as they were, had helped keep the family afloat. Hilda had a good deal of respect for Andy. “Is he doing better now?”