Indigo Christmas

by Jeanne Dams

  Hilda’s knees were shaking as she hung the receiver back on the hook. But she had done it—and Mrs. Elbel was convinced it was her own idea.

  We frisk away like school-boys…

  to joy an’ play.

  —Robert Burns

  Epistle to James Smith, 1786

  8

  HILDA HAD TO HURRY to Erik’s school if she was to see him before he went off who-knew-where with his friends. They sometimes went downtown to buy candy, if one of them was in funds, and were late getting back in the afternoon. Erik liked school, but he also liked playing with his friends, and was sadly apt to lose track of time.

  Hilda wanted, if possible, to talk to his friends, too. Many of them were children of comfortable homes, since most of the boys Erik’s age who came from poor families had already left school, or had never started. Had everyone else in Mama’s household not been working, and had Mama not set such great store by education, Erik would not be in school still, either. At any rate, Hilda decided it was safe to use the carriage. Erik wouldn’t mind either way, and very few of his friends would be intimidated. And Colfax School was far to walk, especially in slush.

  In cold weather the children ate their lunches inside the schoolrooms, if they wished, before going outside to work off a little steam before afternoon classes. Hilda was relieved, when Mr. O’Rourke drew the carriage to a stop, to find no one yet in the schoolyard. She jumped down and strode through the impressive stone archway into the school.

  Though she would never have admitted it to Erik, Hilda was a little in awe of his school. It was so big, rising three stories above the spacious basement, which was also used for various activities. The twelve classrooms were large and well lit with tall windows, and the entire third floor was a beautiful auditorium used for concerts and pageants. Erik was excited about the Christmas pageant that was to be presented in three weeks, in which he and two other Swedish boys were to sing a special Swedish jul song.

  Hilda thought about her schooling in Sweden. There was a small school in the village, but it was too far away for farm children, and too expensive, so Hilda had learned at home with Mama and the other children. They were taught to read out of the family Bible, to do simple arithmetic, painstakingly to write Swedish in a clear, legible hand. everything else she had taught herself, from the very few books the family owned—a history of Sweden, a book of sermons, an atlas—and in America from newspapers and the vast resources of the Public Library, once she had learned English. How differently Erik was being educated, and Birgit, the youngest girl, now in the High School. This magnificent building, built just for the purpose of helping children learn, was to Hilda one of the miracles of America.

  The classrooms were noisy with talk and the pent-up energy of a morning of enforced quiet. Hilda stood for a moment in the square central hall, listening to the shrill voices of the youngest children. The kindergartners and the lower two grades were housed on the first floor, since short legs found the long flight of stairs wearisome. Older children were upstairs, and the oldest of all, the seventh graders, were privileged to use the finest classroom, the one at the front of the school with the fine oriel window. Erik had been quite boringly proud of that window when he first entered seventh grade in September. Hilda smiled, remembering, and climbed the stairs.

  Just as she reached the second floor, the big bell in the schoolyard started ringing loudly, and pandemonium erupted as classroom doors opened and children flooded out. Catching up jackets and hats from the hooks arrayed around the hall, the stream of young humanity poured toward the stairs on either side of the hall, paying scant attention to the stranger as they flowed around her.

  “Hilda!” Erik and three of his friends stopped in front of her, momentarily damming the torrent. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you. And why else would I be here?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing is the matter. I want to talk to you—and your friends. Where can we sit quietly?”

  Sitting quietly was the last thing the boys wanted to do. They were politely silent, but Hilda read their faces. “I know! We will take my carriage downtown, and I will buy you all ice cream, or hot chocolate, or whatever you want.”

  That was a much more popular idea. Their school manners in force, they were reasonably decorous until they were outside, when they let out a whoop and ran for the carriage. Erik stayed with Hilda. “You’re investigating something, aren’t you? I can tell by the way you look. And you’d never want to talk to my friends for anything else.”

  “Erik! I like to talk to your friends, you know that. And I have something important to tell you.”

  “Uh-huh. And to ask us, I bet.”

  “We-ell…”

  Erik giggled. “I knew it, I knew it! Say, Tom!” he called, running to the carriage.

  “Erik! Do not shout,” Hilda shouted, running after him. “This is private,” she hissed when she caught up with him. “Get in, and we will talk about it on the way to the Philadelphia.”

  “Ooh! They have the best sundaes!” said one of the boys as the carriage started off.

  “I do not know your friends,” said Hilda. Erik sometimes needed to be reminded of his manners.

  “Oh. Well, this is Tom Reed. He lives almost next door to the school. This is George Kirkham and this is Ed Lindsey. They live down the street a ways. George has a big old house and we play baseball in his backyard sometimes.”

  “Broke a window last time,” said George casually. “Papa says we can’t play ball there no more.”

  Hilda was a stickler for good grammar, but she didn’t correct him. Instead she seized on the opportunity. “I have something else for you to do. I am Erik’s sister Hilda—Mrs. Cavanaugh. I need your help.”

  All except Erik looked suspicious. Helping grownups usually meant things like raking leaves or painting fences or beating the parlor rugs. Erik knew better. “What do you want to know?” he asked eagerly.

  “Have any of you heard about the man who died in the barn fire last month?”

  Tom and George looked blank, but Ed spoke up. “My papa read about it in the paper. He said he’d heard of the man who died, and he was nothin’ but a common drunkard, and then Mama told him to hush up ’cause I was around and I ain’t supposed to know about things like gettin’ drunk. That’s how come I remember, ’cause they had an argument about it and made me leave the room and I went in the pantry and ate up the rest of the chocolate cake and had a belly-ache all night.”

  The boy patted that portion of his anatomy, which was somewhat prominent, and Tom said, “Musta been an awful lot of cake. I never knew anybody could eat as much as you.”

  “Ah. That is interesting,” said Hilda. “Not the cake, I mean, or your stomach-ache, but that the man drank too much. How did your father know that?”

  Ed shrugged. “Dunno. Guess he heard talk somewheres. Don’t drink himself; Mama’s real strict Temperance, and Papa mostly goes along with what Mama wants.”

  Hilda pondered that. “Drunkard,” to a Temperance household, might mean that the man took an occasional drink, or that he was regularly to be found in the gutter. “Hmm. And have none of the rest of you heard anything?”

  They all shook their heads. “Say, Hilda, why do you want to know?” asked Erik. “There’s nothin’ int’resting about some man gettin’ drunk and settin’ a barn on fire.”

  She hesitated, looking the boys over. She liked what she saw. There was intelligence in those faces, and honesty. Mischief, too, of course. She had no use for a boy with no spark of mischief. Erik had more than his share, perhaps, but the trouble he got into was never malicious. She leaned forward. “Can you keep a secret?” she whispered.

  All four nodded solemnly.

  “The police are not sure that the man died accidentally. They think perhaps he was killed, and I want to try to find out the truth.”

  George slapped his knee in sudden comprehension. “You’re that one! The woman who goes
around finding out things! But I thought you were a servant.” Then he looked abashed. “I’m sorry, miss—ma’am. I musta been wrong.”

  Hilda smiled. “No, you were right. I was a servant. I worked for the Studebakers. But now my life is different, and it is maybe harder for me to ‘go around finding out things.’ That is why I need your help, but you must not say a word about it to anyone. You must promise.”

  “But miss—ma’am—how are we going to help if we can’t talk to people about it?” asked George.

  “You will keep your eyes and ears open, especially your ears. If you see or hear anything you think I should know, tell Erik—in private—and he will tell me. But you must say nothing, nothing—do you understand? We do not know who might be a wicked person involved in this man’s death, and you could be in danger if someone thinks you are curious. Will you promise me?”

  They all promised earnestly, and sealed the bargain with enormous chocolate sundaes at the Philadelphia.

  Two big corporations operating in South Bend

  have made presentations to the South Bend Fire

  Department as a mark of recognition for

  efficient services rendered at recent fires.

  —South Bend Tribune

  December 1904

  9

  A FINE DRIZZLE WAS falling by the time Hilda took the boys back to school. She was indeed late for lunch, but Patrick was still there, enjoying a pipe in front of the parlor fire. Aunt Molly had kept food hot for her, so Hilda brought a tray and joined her husband. “Now, Patrick,” she demanded after she had taken a sip of excellent soup, “tell me what you have learned this morning.”

  “For one thing,” he said, jerking his head toward the ceiling, “there’s goin’ to be a baby in the house any time now.” Muffled cries came from upstairs, along with voices and footsteps. “The doctor’s come,” Patrick went on, “and Sean’s pacin’ up and down in the hall. No, stay and eat your dinner,” as Hilda jumped out of her chair. “There’ll be time enough to admire the babe when it’s in its ma’s arms. You’d only be in the way now. And do you want to hear what I have to say, or don’t you?”

  “I want to know. But are you sure Norah is all right?”

  “Blessed saints, she’s got a passel o’ women around her, her ma and all, and the doctor. She’ll do fine. Stop worryin’ and eat, and listen, because I need to get back to the store and do some work this afternoon. Uncle Dan’s a patient man, but he can’t manage everything himself.”

  Hilda obediently sat down and began to spoon up her soup.

  “I didn’t have time to talk to the police this mornin’. I stopped at the station, but Sergeant Lefkowicz wasn’t there, and I didn’t know most of the ones who were. They’ve got a lot of new men on the force these days. Don’t know if that police chief is as good at his job as he ought to be. Anyway, I found out Lefkowicz will be on duty tomorrow. Saturday’s a busy day at the store, but I can maybe get away for an hour or two and talk to him.”

  “So did you go to the fire station?”

  “I did. out to House Five, there on Sample close to the river. They were the nearest to the farm, so they got there first, but it was way too late. By the time somebody in town saw the smoke and pulled the alarm, the fire had a good hold, and there wasn’t much they could do except keep it from spreadin’ to the house. We need more fire stations in this town, the way it’s growin’, ’specially to the south. The firemen can’t put out fires if they can’t get there in time!”

  It was a familiar refrain. Although South Bend was putting up more and more buildings of stone and brick, most of the houses and businesses and factories were still constructed of wood, which made fire a constant, deadly hazard, even with the high-pressure water system provided by the standpipe of which the city was so proud. of course, out in the country where the hoses had to be filled with water pumped from wells, the firefighters had an even harder job. Hilda knew all the arguments for more fire stations, for new and better equipment. Right now she didn’t want to hear them.

  “Yes, yes, but what did they say?”

  “They say the fire was started with kerosene. There was a lamp turned over, right near the door, and they reckon the kerosene leaked out and the heat of the lamp set it on fire. They could tell that part burned fast and hard, so they figure there was somethin’ there, a pile of straw maybe, or a rick of firewood, that caught fire directly and set off the rest.”

  Hilda put down her spoon. She had once had a narrow escape from a fire started by a kerosene lamp. The memory was a terrible one. “That poor man,” she said soberly. “I heard this morning that he—the man who died, I mean, Mr. Jenkins—maybe drank too much. If he was drunk, he might have dropped the lantern, and then not been able to get away fast enough. oh, Patrick, it is horrible!”

  “Oh, he was drunk, all right. One of the firemen knew him a little, and some of his friends, and he—the fireman—said Jenkins spent most of the morning in a saloon out on Miami Street. His boss was away for a day or two buying supplies and machinery, and Jenkins wasn’t all that dependable about stickin’ to his job when the farmer wasn’t there. His friends told the fireman that Jenkins didn’t even eat any lunch, just went home in the early afternoon in such a state they weren’t sure he wouldn’t end up in a ditch.”

  “He was walking?”

  “Yes, the farmer—Miller, his name is—had taken the wagon and both the horses. Jenkins wasn’t supposed to take the buggy out anyway, I guess, but his friends think he would have if there’d been a horse to pull it. There wasn’t, so he walked. But Hilda, you don’t have to worry about him bein’ caught in the flames that way. That’s the funny thing.”

  “Funny? Patrick, nothing about this is funny!”

  “Peculiar, then. The firemen who saw the barn, when it was burning and afterwards, swear that fire must have blazed up in a snap of your fingers. But the dead man wasn’t found there by the door. He was up in the hayloft, in the far corner away from the door, layin’ down nice and peaceful-like. He was hardly burned at all. They figure he died from breathin’ in the smoke when he was dead to the world from the drink. They say he likely didn’t know anything about it atall.”

  “But then—Patrick, you are right. It is peculiar. He could not have dropped the lantern?”

  “Not and get away from the fire in time, they say.”

  “And there were no horses on the farm. Were there cows? Dogs? Other animals?”

  “Jenkins should have brought the cows home to be milked, but he didn’t. They were in a fine state when a neighbor rounded them up next day, I hear, achin’ with too much milk and bellerin’ like anything. The hogs have their own pen, the chickens were in the yard, and Mr. Miller took the two dogs with him.”

  “Then—the wind knocked over the lantern, maybe.”

  “No wind that day. It was dead calm. That’s the only reason the brigade could save the house and the other buildings. Wind from the wrong direction and it all would’ve gone up.”

  “Then, Patrick—how did the lantern fall?”

  Patrick opened his mouth to reply, when a loud and prolonged shriek came from upstairs. It was followed by silence, and then an unmistakable wail.

  Patrick and Hilda looked at each other. A delighted smile slowly spread across Hilda’s face.

  Brisk footsteps came down the stairs, and Aunt Molly entered the parlor, a broad smile on her face as well. “Hilda, my dear, when she’s had a bath and been dressed, you’ll have to come upstairs and meet your namesake, Fiona.”

  Patrick, after a quick handshake for the jubilant Sean, headed back to work, and Hilda found she had recovered her appetite. She was joined by Norah’s mother, who was exhausted but serene. Sean was too excited to eat. He had been allowed one glimpse of his daughter, just before the doctor left, and could only babble about her. “Beautiful, she is! Head full of black hair, just like me! And strong! Just listen to her!”

  “It is hard to do anything else,” said Hilda with a grin. Indeed the
baby upstairs was howling lustily, protesting against every detail of her new environment.

  “She wants her mother,” said Aunt Molly. “As soon as she’s allowed to suckle she’ll be quiet enough. But you’re right, Sean, she’s a good healthy baby. It’s a fine granddaughter you have, Mrs. Murphy.”

  “Me first one,” said Mrs. Murphy, glowing. “Grandsons, five of them, but this is the first little girl.” Her face clouded. “Well, there was one—me oldest son’s—but she died after two days. Weak and puny she was, we all knew she couldn’t live. This one, she’s a hearty wee thing.”

  “And beautiful!” said Sean. “Such hair! And her hands, so tiny, but perfect…”

  Hilda and the others listened patiently. A man’s first child comes along but once.

  As soon as Hilda and Mrs. Murphy had finished eating, they helped Aunt Molly clear away. Eileen was still helping Mrs. O’Rourke with Norah and the baby, so Molly and Mrs. Murphy set about washing the dishes and getting dinner started. “Babies come, and the world goes on, and people have to eat,” said Molly, when Hilda protested about Molly continuing to do menial work. “You’re no use in the kitchen, child. Away upstairs with you and take a look at the young lady. But don’t tire Norah. She lost a good deal of blood, and she needs her rest.”

  Hilda tapped on the bedroom door and went in. The room was transformed. Huge bouquets of roses stood on the dresser, Sean’s roses he’d bought with Hilda’s money. Mother and child had been washed and dressed, the bed had been freshly made, and Fiona lay contentedly in her sleepy mother’s arms, nuzzling at a breast. “Such a smart girl she is,” Norah murmured. “Found what she wanted the minute they gave her to me. Isn’t she the prettiest little thing, Hilda?”

  Hilda privately thought Fiona looked like every other newborn baby, red, wrinkled, and ancient. Of course she didn’t say so. “I think she will look exactly like you,” she lied. “Her eyes are just the same color blue.”