by Tess Hilmo
“My schoolteacher Mr. Frankel was from Munich!”
“See?” she says, sliding a pile of straight pins from the counter into a box. “It is meant to be.”
5
Quinn is waiting at the buckeye tree with Nettie when I get there at three o’clock. “Where did you go?” I ask.
“I don’t want to work in that shop.” He takes Nettie’s hand and starts down the street toward Miss Franny’s.
“I was worried,” I go on, trailing behind them. His walk is curt and deliberate and Nettie is nearly skipping to keep up with him.
I run past them and turn into their path, forcing him to stop.
“I’ll never be able to save up enough for both you and Nettie on my own. If you don’t work with me, we’ll be stuck at Miss Franny’s forever.”
“Why should I cart rubble or work in a ladies’ shop for five dollars a week just to move out into another boardinghouse that costs the same five dollars a week?” he asks. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“We’re going to move into a place where we are wanted and treated kindly,” I answer.
“You’re not thinking this through,” Quinn says. “We’re staying at Miss Franny’s for free but we both know she charges five dollars a week. And that’s about what someone will pay kids like us to work. So if you earn five dollars and I earn five dollars, we can both move out. But where does that leave Nettie? Even if that fancy shop pays you six or seven dollars a week, it still won’t be enough.”
“Then we will both work for three months and put our money aside. That will give us two months of rent for the three of us.”
“And then what?”
“Fine, we will both work for six months and that will give us four months to figure out our next step.”
“Well as long as you get what you want,” Quinn says, tugging Nettie down the road again.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, following them.
“It means I’m tired of doing what you tell me to.” He is angry and something tells me it’s about more than getting a job. That it’s about my asking him to come to the store with me back on that day in Peshtigo and about how I made him stop at the fabric mill so I could look at the new calico prints they were making. And probably about how I pulled him into the Menominee River when he wanted to run through the flames and go home.
When we finally get to Miss Franny’s, I tell Nettie to go inside, and then I turn to Quinn. “You couldn’t have saved them,” I say. “You would never have made it home.” Then I keep going when I should just shut my mouth. “Have you forgotten how hot the fire was? How half the survivors staying at the church were blinded from the heat alone? Don’t you remember walking home after the fire passed and seeing spun glass around the roots of the felled trees? How hot does it have to be to turn the sand on those roots into glass? You can blame me all you want, but I’ll never be sorry for saving you. Or for saving myself.”
“I have chores to do,” he says, going over to the woodpile. He lifts the ax above a fat log and splits it in two.
I walk over to where he is. “I’ll wither up inside if I have to live my life under Miss Franny’s rule. And Nettie deserves a family. We need your help, Quinn. I’m going to work at the millinery shop and I need you to find a job as well.”
“You’re not listening,” he says. “If I could find work that paid more than five dollars a week, I would. But if I get a job carting rubble or follow you into that hat shop, we’ll still be stuck living here so what’s the purpose?” He goes back to chopping. I know he’s done talking so I leave him there with Miss Franny’s woodpile.
Once inside, I make it a point to wash Miss Franny’s floors right away. I am on my hands and knees, scrubbing under her long dining room table where all the boarders eat when I hear her come in.
“Humph,” she says above me.
I dip the rag into the bucket and keep scrubbing, not looking up.
“And the porch needs a good sweeping,” she says.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And someone needs to beat the dust out of the front room rug.”
“I am happy to, Miss Franny,” I say, focusing my rag on splattered gravy that is dried in a glop on one of the table legs. “I’ll get to it shortly.”
She says nothing, but I can feel her standing over me while I use my thumbnail to scratch at the brown glob of gravy.
“Don’t take the finish off my table,” she says sharply.
But then she is gone.
I sit back on my heels and smile. The sound of those birds singing in the trees this morning comes to mind, along with a whisper of Mother’s voice: 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. You can do this, Ailis Doyle.
* * *
Sam is on the front porch when I finish scrubbing the floor and go out to sweep.
“I heard you went to school today,” he says from his chair.
“Really?” is all I can think to say.
“Sure did,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Fran mentioned it. But I also heard you arguing with your brother about taking a job in town.”
I stop sweeping. “Please don’t tell anyone about the millinery shop. Miss Franny thinks she owns us and I need to start—”
He holds up a hand. “I left home when I was just thirteen. My pa was an accountant in New York City and expected me to follow his path. Can you see me sitting behind a desk?”
I look at Sam’s broad shoulders, thick arms, and crooked nose—likely that way from one too many street fights. “No.”
“Neither could I. So I packed what little I had and took off in the middle of the night.”
“Without saying anything?”
“My pa wasn’t interested in anything I had to say.”
“Have you ever visited your family?”
“I might go someday, when the fidget is out of my bones,” Sam says. “The only reason I said anything is because I’ve learned a lot over these past fifteen years—much of it the hard way—and I was thinking there might be a few things I can teach you and Quinn.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for starters, you should always keep your business private. No one needs to know what you have in your pocket or how it got there, understand?”
I nod, leaning against the broom.
“And it sounds like you’ve found good work but I understand what your brother is saying, too. Why don’t you get him,” Sam says. “I’ve got an idea he might like.”
I go tell Quinn to come to the front porch. Sam reaches in his pocket, pulls out his harmonica, and starts playing. I have never met anyone who can work a harmonica like Sam. He puts a simple block of wood to his lips and pushes out a musical story. Sometimes it is jaunty and glad, sometimes it’s filled with sorrow, but when Sam plays it feels like there’s more than just music happening. It feels like he’s telling you something.
“See this beauty?” Sam says, holding the instrument up. “She has put change in my pocket more times than I can count through the years.”
Quinn is immediately interested. “Really?”
“Sure,” Sam says. “Before I had my job at the iron smith, I relied solely on my harmonica and sometimes I still use it to earn extra pocket change. I just stand on a busy corner downtown, flip my hat upside down on the sidewalk, and play until the coins start rolling in. Of course, when I was young, they rolled in faster than ever. There’s something about a child that makes people loosen their purse strings.” He puts the harmonica to his mouth and plays a few bars before going on. “And the folks milling around Chicago have had their hearts softened by the fire. Maybe they survived it, or maybe they’re poking around, gawking at those of us who did. Either way, it’s prime picking for this type of work.” He plays two more bars of a lighthearted tune. “If you take your fiddle down on Canal Street and play it like I heard you playing outside in the middle of the night, you’ll
do your part to help Ailis and Net.”
“Can I earn more than the five dollars a week I’d get for filling carts with rubble?” Quinn asks.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you could,” Sam says. “When you play that fiddle in the midnight hours, it pulls me from my sleep. Two nights ago it had me sitting on the edge of my bed thinking all sorts of thoughts I hadn’t had in years. You’ve got heartache to share and talent to back it up. That’s what makes people stop and listen.”
Quinn has been playing Father’s fiddle in the middle of the night?
Then Sam adds, “I’ve seen peddlers building fire pits out of hammered steel on a few corners downtown. You could play by those to keep from getting cold. Or try the indoor bazaar on Clinton, just a block west of Canal Street. I wonder if you could ask a restaurant or hotel to let you play in their lobby as entertainment for their guests, too. Move around a bit. If people see you playing in the same spot every day, they’ll be less likely to drop a coin.”
“There was one of those fire pits next to a jerky cart, not far from the hat shop,” I say.
“Makin’ money just by playing,” Quinn mumbles, still trying to believe it.
“Making good money,” Sam says. “And making people happy. Remember that, too.”
Quinn returns to the woodpile and once he is out of earshot I ask, “Do you really think he can do it?”
“Have you heard your brother play lately?”
“No, but I suppose he was getting pretty good back in Peshtigo.”
“Going through what you both did changes people,” Sam says. “And Quinn’s been playing music to the chickens in the middle of the night because his heart is trying to make sense of it all. If he can help what’s left of his family while still connecting to the part he lost, then there’s a chance he’ll be all right in the long run.”
6
We find a fire pit on the corner next to Ketchum’s Butcher Shop the next morning and Quinn says it’s as good of a place as any to start playing.
“Move somewhere inside if you get too cold,” I tell him, but the fire really is warm and the owner of the butcher shop seems happy to have entertainment at his door.
I leave Quinn tuning his strings and head a block over to the millinery shop.
Standing there, I say a two-part wish. The first part is that Miss Franny won’t notice how I swiped one of her aprons from the nail on the kitchen wall and the second part is that the apron will cover enough stains on my dress to help it look presentable. Oh, and also that Quinn will have a good day playing the fiddle. So a three-part wish, I guess.
The bell over the door chimes as I come in and Mrs. Muench looks up from her work at the main counter. “Good,” she says in her German accent, which makes the word sound more like goot. “You are on time.” Then she notices the apron. “And I see you tried with the dress.”
I run my hands down along Miss Franny’s apron. It is a simple green print on a beige cotton background but it is clean and pressed. It is worlds better than my dress which, Mrs. Muench was right, is awful.
“Thank you, Mrs. Muench,” I say. “I hope it’s nice enough.”
“It’s not,” she says curtly. “And call me Ida.”
“My parents always taught me to speak to adults using the Mrs.—”
She waves a hand to cut me off. “I set the rules.” Each syllable is sharp and short.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Yes, Ida?” she asks.
“Yes.” I pause. “Ida.”
“Now about that dress.” She disappears into a rear doorway. As she leaves, the front door chimes and I turn to see two ladies coming in.
“Good morning,” I say as I dip my chin. “May I help you?”
They look at me and then look at each other and I know Ida is right about my dress, apron or no apron.
“Is Ida in?” the taller of the two ladies asks. Her hat sports a royal blue feather that bounces as she speaks and I can’t help but notice she has three chins that bobble and match the feather’s bounce.
I turn to the doorway where Ida has gone. “She’s in the back, but I am her new shopgirl. Can I be of any help?”
The bobbling-feather-and-chin lady looks me over once again and then seems to concede. “Can you please tell Ida Lady June is here to collect her new hat?”
It is clear she is putting on airs. Lady June, indeed. There are no Ladys in America. I offer another small bow and say, “But of course.” I start toward the storeroom and run into Ida as she is coming out with a dress draped over her arm. “I remembered that I had this—” she starts to say before she notices the two ladies standing in her shop.
“Lady June has come to collect her new hat,” I say, trying to sound professional.
“I have it ready for you.” Ida puts the dress down on the counter and starts over to a hat rack in the corner, but Lady June steps in her way and gives her a concerned look.
“This girl said she works for you now. Is it true?” she asks.
“She started this morning.”
“But she’s…” Lady June doesn’t finish her sentence. “Now, Ida, I am just being mindful of your reputation.”
I can’t stop looking at her feather and chins as she speaks.
“The girl may need a bit of polish,” Ida says, “but she’ll be fine. Let me get your new hat.”
“You can’t polish the Irish off of her,” Lady June says, and a snicker escapes from the mouth of her friend, who is still standing by the front door.
Ida looks down at her feet and twists the toe of one shoe on a floorboard. Then she looks up with a broad smile and says, “Lady June, would you like your hat or not?”
“It is because I respect your work,” Lady June says. “And I wouldn’t want rumors to start.”
“Because if you do not want your hat,” Ida says, “I have another customer who was admiring it yesterday. A Mrs. Carlson, I believe.”
I don’t know who Mrs. Carlson is but it is clear that Lady June doesn’t want her touching the hat. “No, no, I’ll take it.”
Ida turns to me and says, “Ailis, will you retrieve the yellow-and-white hat from the rack?” She stands like a rock wall behind me as I get the hat and wrap it up.
When Lady June and her friend leave, Ida mumbles, “Dummkopf,” which I remember Mr. Frankel saying whenever one of the boys misbehaved in school, so I know it isn’t a compliment.
“I’m sorry to cause you trouble.”
“No trouble. I am the only milliner left after the fire. There are charity events almost daily and these women don’t want to be seen in the same outfit over and over. They insist upon new things and so they are stuck with me.” She says that last part with a smug kind of smile. “For you,” she says, picking the dress up and holding it out.
It isn’t anything close to what Lady June or her friend were wearing, but it is still far nicer than anything I’ve ever owned. “Thank you.” I run my fingers across the hem. It is light blue cotton with a line of cream lace that runs across the chest and up over the shoulders. “It’s lovely.”
“It used to be mine but that was many Schokoladentorten ago.”
“What’s a Schoko…?” I try, but can’t pronounce the word like she does.
“You would call it chocolate cake.”
“Oh.”
“I have others, too. I know it’s silly of me to keep old dresses that have grown too small, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw them out—and now, look, I’ve found a use for them.”
“Would you mind if I kept it here and changed when I came each morning?”
“But I am giving this dress to you. To have always.”
I don’t want to sound ungrateful but I’m not sure how to explain away the new dress to Miss Franny so I say, “Our boardinghouse is poorly kept and I would be worried about ruining it. You see what has happened to my dress.”
Ida looks down at the stains on my skirt. “If you think it best.”
I take the dress.
/> “What are you waiting for then?” she says, waving toward the storeroom. “Go change. There is much work to be done and too little time. Enough of this standing around, talking about nothing!”
Her words are sharp but they aren’t like Miss Franny’s.
They are entirely different.
* * *
Quinn is still in front of the butcher shop when I get off work. I walk up slowly and stand behind a large sign on the sidewalk advertising pork chops. 100% REAL PORK, it reads and I wonder whatever in the world could be in pork chops otherwise?
Quinn looks so alone standing there with Father’s fiddle case open at his feet. A woman pulling along a little girl brushes past me and stops in front of Quinn. The girl skips in place and swings her arms out in a dance, and the mother says to Quinn, “How old are you, boy?”
Quinn keeps playing but answers, “Eleven.”
“Does your mother know where you are?”
“I don’t have a mother. She died with my father and baby sister in Peshtigo’s fire.”
At that, the little girl stops her dance but Quinn smiles and says, “Here’s a song for you,” and then starts an even faster, lighter song that sounds like fairy feet sprinting through the forest. The girl giggles and begins skipping in place again.
“God bless you,” the woman says when he is done. She pulls two bills from her black velvet bag and drops them into Quinn’s fiddle case.
Bills!
Ida promised me one dollar and twenty-five cents per day and the ability to work only school hours plus Saturdays after my work is finished at the boardinghouse, which I think is generous. Quinn nearly doubles my daily pay in thirty seconds.
As the woman takes the girl’s hand and walks off, I notice a broken piece of yellow chalk on the sidewalk where the girl had been dancing. I step out from behind the sign and come forward, picking up the chalk and sliding it into my skirt pocket. The girl is only one store down and I can easily return the chalk to her, but instead I wrap my fingers around it and hold it tightly.