by Tess Hilmo
“And I hope it serves as a lesson to you.” Miss Franny is talking to me. “When the bird is prepared, put it in a pot of water and place it on the stove. Leave the feet and innards in the bowl on the table. One hen can be made into four meals if we’re prudent.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say again.
She stands there another minute, almost as if she is trying to decide if the punishment was sufficient or if she should send a little more misery my way. Finally, she turns and leaves the kitchen.
“Thank you,” Nettie whispers as she begins pulling out the feathers.
“You did a good job,” I say. “And now we get chicken soup for dinner instead of the same old potato hash.”
“I love chicken soup.”
I take a knife from the drawer. “Me too.”
As I slice the hen’s belly open, I make a promise to myself to free us from Miss Franny’s grasp. I can’t stand to live with her temper and cruelty. It’s as if each moment I spend inside these walls is slowly changing the person I am meant to be. As if I might never become the Ailis my parents hoped for. Even if I went to Mr. Olsen and pleaded for him to move us, where would we go? This is his only boardinghouse. And besides, what would happen to Nettie? I pull the innards from the hen, drop them into the bowl, and vow to find a solution. Somehow, we will get out.
4
Monday morning, I am awakened by the usual sounds of construction. But this time there is something more to the noise. When I close my eyes and allow my mind to wash away the clamor of hammering, I can hear a delicate chitter of birdsong. I turn over in bed next to Nettie and listen to those chirrup chirrup sounds going on outside. I cannot recall hearing the birds sing since we came to Chicago. Had they gone away because of the fire and are finally returning? Or is there something in me that can just now hear them again?
I think of how Mother and I were up at this time every day in Peshtigo. How we’d go outside when the sky was that soft, ginger color of morning to milk our three goats and two cows. I remember her pointing out the tiny finches in our trees as we walked to the barn, saying, “See those birds? Don’t be fooled by their size. They may be small, but they are strong and can weather even the most terrible winter storms.”
“What kind of birds are they?” I asked.
“People call them common house finches, but there is nothing common about those birds. They are extraordinary when you think about it.” Then she would take my hand and lead me into the barn. Most days, we worked in silence, but on occasion she would sing an old Irish song or ask about my schoolwork.
I slide out of bed and into my clothes. Those twitter-chittering finches outside Miss Franny’s place make me want to get up and work. Make me—amazingly—want to remember Mother. Make me feel as if good things are coming.
So I’m not surprised when, later in the morning, Mr. Olsen stops his carriage in front of the boardinghouse.
I am at the sink, washing the last few oatmeal bowls from breakfast when Nettie skips in and sings out, “Did you see who’s here? Mr. Olsen!”
This is the first time he’s been by since bringing Quinn and me to the boardinghouse.
“And just when I have to go to school,” she says, her joy turning into a pout.
I skim the flecks of oatmeal from the wash water and put them in a bowl for the remaining hens.
“Look at his coat!” She is running into the front room, pressing her nose to the window and then skipping back and reporting the scene to me. “Have you ever seen anything so fine?”
She runs to the window again. “He has a bag. Oh Ailis, do you think there’s something in it for us? Maybe he brought oranges … or jam?”
The front door opens and I can hear Miss Franny buzzing around him like a mosquito as they step into the house. What a lovely surprise to see you, Mr. Olsen, and How’s the railroad business going? Her voice is like tinkling bells, like nothing I have ever heard come from her mouth before.
I shake my head and keep washing.
Nettie can’t contain her excitement and says, “What’s in the bag?”
Miss Franny looks to Nettie. “Shouldn’t you be off to school?”
Mr. Olsen steps forward. “Muffins and apples and cream.” He hands the bag to Nettie. “From my home to yours.”
Nettie holds the bag tightly and tucks her nose down into the opening. “Are these muffins for all of us?”
Miss Franny takes the bag. “That’s enough now, child. Off to school.”
“There are two dozen muffins.” He leans over and smiles at Nettie. “Plenty for all.” Then he looks up and sees me across the way. “How are you faring today, Ailis?”
“Well, sir,” I say.
Mr. Olsen reaches into his pocket and pulls out two small gray-white squares. “It’s Mexican chicle gum,” he says, holding the pieces out in his palm. “From the jungles of the Yucatán. Go on, take it.”
Nettie goes first and grins widely as she bites into the gum. “It’s not like the pinesap we usually chew—it’s sweet!”
“Thanks to my friend Thomas Adams. This is his newest recipe. It’ll be in stores everywhere within the next year but you, my dear, are one of the first American children to taste it.”
“Try it, Ailis,” Nettie says.
I take the chicle. “I’ll save mine. Thank you, Mr. Olsen.”
Miss Franny places the bag Mr. Olsen brought on the kitchen table. Then she gives Nettie a soft push from behind. “Grab your books.”
Nettie takes her writing book and pencil from the table. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And you, Ailis?” Mr. Olsen asks. “Are you off to school, too?”
Miss Franny hasn’t allowed Quinn and me to attend school with Nettie and the other children in the neighborhood. She says we’re too old to be going, but I know it is because she doesn’t believe the Irish are worthy of an education.
“Ailis has been a wonderful help to me here,” Miss Franny says before I can answer.
Mr. Olsen tilts his head. He is a broad man with a wide, friendly face and a short white beard. “That’s good to hear,” he says. “But are you implying the girl is not attending to her studies?”
Miss Franny sways her hips and brushes a hand along the table. “Well, I tried to get her to go, begged her almost. But she doesn’t see the value in education as we do. I suppose it is the farm in her. She wasn’t interested in her studies and I certainly couldn’t force her.”
“And her brother? Where is he?”
“Out back,” I say, “putting new boards on the shed.”
Miss Franny cuts her gaze to me, but I am feeling brave.
“Miss Franny is telling you the truth,” I go on. “I tried to get out of schoolwork, but the longer I stay away, the more I realize my parents would be sad to know I quit going.”
“Your father was an educated man,” Mr. Olsen says. “I’ve no doubt his wish was for you to attend school.”
“Yes, that was always his dream for us.”
“Then you must go.” Mr. Olsen is decisive.
“Both of them?” Miss Franny asks.
“Absolutely. I am paying you a wage to run this house and, while the children can be of some help, I certainly don’t expect them to do it at the expense of their education.”
I can almost see the frustration radiating from her but she manages to offer a constrained smile. “It was what the children wanted.”
“It’s all my fault,” I say, going over to Nettie’s side. “But I will listen to your wisdom now, Mr. Olsen, and tell my brother we must attend school, starting today.”
“Hooray!” Nettie shouts with a jump.
“Take a muffin with you,” he says.
I start for the bag, but think better of it when I catch the look on Miss Franny’s face. “It’s fine,” I say. “We’re late already.” I don’t give Mr. Olsen a chance to make Miss Franny any angrier. I just grab Nettie’s hand and pull her out the door.
“I want a muffin,” she says on the back step. “Th
ey smell good and I accidentally swallowed that chicle gum.”
“You can have a muffin later.” I turn to Quinn, who stopped hammering when we came out. “Mr. Olsen thinks we should go to school.”
“And he gave us candied gum,” Nettie says.
Quinn puts a nail up against the last new board. “I’m not going to school.”
“Just come,” I say. “And do it now.”
“Everyone will laugh at me,” he says, raising the hammer and driving the nail through the board in two swift swings. Quinn is young, but digging irrigation ditches and hauling bushels in the cranberry bogs have made him strong.
“Please, Quinn,” I say, hoping Mr. Olsen won’t leave before we get out of Miss Franny’s range. “I need you to come with us.”
Quinn looks at me and understands. He has always been good at reading into my words. “All right,” he says, setting the hammer down. “I’m coming.”
* * *
Nettie is crushed when I tell her Quinn and I aren’t really going to school.
“But you promised Mr. Olsen,” she says.
“We will still be getting an education. It’s just going to have to be less structured, that’s all.”
“By taking a job?”
I bend down on one knee, looking at Nettie. “Listen, you have to keep this a secret for us. Once Quinn and I find work, we can save up and move into a nice place where we’re welcome. All three of us together.”
“Like a real family?” Nettie asks, rubbing her hand under her nose.
“With bedtime stories and songs around the fireplace—the whole picture.”
She considers what I’ve said. “Do you think Miss Franny will be sad if we leave? What if she misses us?”
“Miss Franny will be happy to have three less people in her house.”
“And Mr. Olsen,” Nettie says, her hand rubbing again. “What will he think?”
“Mr. Olsen is a busy man. He will be glad to know we are taking care of ourselves.” Then I cinch it. “Listen, Nettie, the state of Illinois won’t pay for your boarding forever. They’ll rebuild the orphanage and back you’ll go. All alone again.”
Her mouth falls open. “Do you think so?”
“Don’t you remember that cook telling you they were already rebuilding the orphanage?”
“Charlie did say that.”
“Once it is finished you’ll have to go. Quinn and me finding work is our only chance to be together.”
“Okay, Ailis,” Nettie says as she pokes out her little finger. “I pinkie promise not to tell.”
I wrap my pinkie around hers and look over to Quinn. “Come on,” I say. “Put yours in.”
Quinn rolls his eyes but then covers our pinkie fingers with his own.
“To the grave,” I say in my most somber voice. Then I kiss our hands to seal the promise.
“Ewww,” Quinn says, pulling his hand back.
“My lips didn’t even touch you,” I say, defensive. “I purposely kept them on my side.”
“They were close enough.”
Nettie giggles.
“All right,” I say, “you go to school, Net, and we will meet you here at this buckeye tree at three o’clock.” I point to a tree on the corner.
Nettie agrees and skips off to school while Quinn and I turn north, toward downtown Chicago. The fire started in the O’Learys’ barn and spread mostly northeast. I saw the edges of the destruction when we were brought down from Peshtigo, but I haven’t seen the worst of it. Even with weeks of rebuilding, the city is a mess of rubble. Everywhere we look, we see piles of rocks and shapeless brick mounds that were once prosperous businesses and vibrant homes.
The great city of Chicago is nothing but a blistered skeleton.
We walk on in a shocked-but-kind-of-curious way, through the charred streets. The only people we see are those either hauling rubble out or carting loads of new lumber in.
“Where are they going to put all of this trash and debris?” I wonder out loud.
Quinn walks over to a man who is pushing a wheelbarrow that is piled high with charred wood scraps. “Excuse me, sir,” Quinn says. “Who would we talk to about finding work?”
The man sets down the wheelbarrow, pulls a handkerchief from his shirt pocket, and mops sweat from his forehead. “Teddy’s the foreman for this job. You can apply over at city hall.”
“What’s a person get paid for carting rubble?”
“Depends,” the man says. “A boy your size would probably earn in the neighborhood of five dollars a week.”
“Thank you for your help,” Quinn says.
The man tucks the handkerchief back into his pocket, picks up the wheelbarrow handles, and continues down the road.
“Should we go to city hall?” I ask Quinn.
“I’m not sure I want to haul rubble,” he says. “And they’re not going to hire a girl, that’s for sure.”
I know he’s probably right so I say, “Let’s go over to Canal Street. Sam was telling me tourists have come from all over the country to see this mess. He even said he saw a lady steal a burned sign from one of the fire stations.”
“What for?” Quinn asks.
“As a souvenir of a nation’s tragedy, I guess. If what he says is true, then there have to be places for those tourists to shop and sleep and eat. Some of those places must be hiring.”
Quinn follows me as I walk back out toward the edge of the fire’s path.
When we finally make it to the west end of Canal Street, I wave my arm and say, “Just like Sam told me.” Here, people fill the streets and vendors set up makeshift stores wherever there is a bare spot of land. “This is closer to Miss Franny’s anyway,” I say. “Fifteen-minute walk, tops.”
Quinn points to a hotel. “There’s a sign in that window, maybe they’re hiring.”
“No,” I say. “It just says they have rooms open. See the capital V? It reads, Vacancy, which means empty rooms. Don’t feel bad,” I say. “That’s a hard word. We need to look for a sign that says Help Wanted. You can find the word help.” He nods and keeps looking.
I have been thinking about what Mr. Sullivan said about the Irish being disliked and I know it’s time to tell Quinn an important fact about our job search. “And when we apply for work, we have to change our names. I can still go by Ailis because it’s also an English name, especially if I change the spelling to A-l-i-c-e. But you’ll have to drop Quinn. And Doyle is entirely too Irish.”
“I’m not changing anything.”
I need to be firm. “Yes, you are. I’m telling you, Quinn, Chicago doesn’t want to hire us. Besides, it’s only for when we’re at work. Think of it as a sort of make-believe.”
“What will I go by?”
“How about Steven. Steven and Alice Smith. And let me do the talking.” Then I see it. A brick building on the corner with two signs. The first sign hangs over the door and reads, IDA MUENCH, MILLINER and the second leans against the window and reads, HELP WANTED.
I point to the shop. “They’re hiring here, let’s go.”
Quinn steps back. “I’m not touching lacy things, no sir.”
For a flash, I wonder how he knows it is a millinery shop, but then notice the window display full of hats, gloves, and a bright pink parasol with lace trim. “Maybe you can work in the storeroom. Let’s at least ask.” I pull the door of the shop open and a bell hanging from a cord above chimes. Quinn makes a face at the sound of that delicate bell. “We need this,” I whisper to him.
The shop is overflowing with femininity. There are straw bonnets, crushed-velvet hats with feathers and silk trim, gathered lace veils bustled up with flowers … There is even a wall of parasols dangling in a row by thin string. I can’t help but let out a sigh at the luxury of it all.
“Oh brother,” Quinn says, just behind me.
Before I can shut the door an elderly lady comes out from the storeroom. “Yes?” She is short and thick and speaks with a German accent.
“We’re here to i
nquire about your help-wanted sign,” I say. “We’re looking for work.”
“We? You and your shadow?” she asks, peering around me.
“Me and my…” I turn to pull Quinn over to my side, but he is gone. “Just a moment,” I say to the lady, leaning out the open door and looking up and down Canal Street.
Quinn is nowhere to be seen.
“You let the cold in,” the woman says. “Come in or go out, which do you choose?”
I look once more for any sign of Quinn. “In,” I say, stepping into the shop and closing the door behind me. “I need work. I’m dependable and a quick learner.”
The woman inspects my appearance. I fold my hands over the largest of the stains on my skirt and smile, trying to appear friendly.
“Family?” she asks abruptly.
“Just my brother. We are staying at a boardinghouse owned by Mr. Olsen. Have you heard of him?”
She lifts a shoulder and lets out a puff of air. “Who hasn’t?” Then she flicks a finger toward me and says, “Is that your only dress?”
“Yes, ma’am. We lost our parents and baby sister in Peshtigo’s fire and we need to make a new life for ourselves.” I don’t know why I feel compelled to tell her that, but I suddenly want this job more than anything. “Please, I beg of you.”
“Your dress will never do,” she says. “The ladies who come into this shop expect a certain level of nicety.”
“If you could give me an advance on wages, even a small one, I will buy a suitable dress.”
“An advance?” Her gray eyebrows are raised. “You don’t even have the offer and already you are asking for an advance? What is your name?”
“Alice Smith.”
“Your real name, girl. I hold no malice for the Irish, which you clearly are. Your hair gives you away.”
I reach up and touch my braid. “Doyle,” I say. “Ailis Doyle.”
“So you are in my employ for two minutes and already you ask for an advance of money and tell me a lie. Is this how it shall be?”
“No, ma’am.” Then I realize what she said. “In your employ?”
“Why not? I have work to be done and there you are standing in my doorway. We will have to figure out what to do about your dress. I will give it some thought.” She looks at me longer and says, “There is something about you that reminds me of myself as a young girl in Munich.”