Cinnamon Moon

by Tess Hilmo

  “You’re good,” I say to Quinn.

  “Not as good as Father.”

  “No, but he had played a lot longer. I bet you’ll be as good as him someday.”

  Quinn adjusts one of the fiddle strings. “He doesn’t seem so far away anymore.”

  “Who?”

  “Father.”

  I think about the finch songs and know what he means. “How’d you do?” Then I notice there are only those two bills I saw the lady drop into the fiddle case. Quinn reaches down and picks them up. “Two dollars is still a lot of money,” I say.

  “There’s more,” he says. “I learned pretty quickly that people like to put their money in an empty case. I guess they feel more needed if no one else has dropped a coin. And they also feel like you have enough if they see others giving you something. So…” He reaches in his coat pocket and pulls out a handful of coins and bills.

  “Put it back,” I say, glancing down the street.

  “What for?”

  “Because I don’t want to get robbed is what for. We’ll count it later.”

  Quinn puts the money into his pocket. “I counted it as it came in. I made three dollars and thirty-seven cents, minus the twenty-five cents I spent on a sandwich and milk for lunch. Plus these two dollars makes five dollars and twelve cents. At this rate,” he says, “you could go to school and not even have to work at that lady’s shop.”

  “I don’t want to go to school anymore.”

  “But you love school.”

  “I think Miss Franny is right. I’m too old for that nonsense.”

  Quinn shakes his head. “The Ailis I know would never call school nonsense.”

  “Well, I’m not that Ailis anymore.” I keep my fingers locked around the yellow chalk in my pocket. “And maybe it’s time for both of us to grow up.”

  7

  I have been working at Ida Muench’s millinery shop for two weeks when Lady June returns. She comes in the front door amid a flurry of snowflakes and wind, wearing a black wrap with red fur trim and a fully bustled red dress. It is an ordinary Tuesday morning, but she is decked out as if President Ulysses S. Grant might show up at any moment and invite her to tea. I am thankful to be wearing a pretty gray woolen dress Ida gave me with pleats around the skirt and velvet trim on the collar—but also mad at myself for caring. Ida is in the back, wrapping a piece of felt around a hat block, so I put down the parasol frame I am pulling out of a delivery box and step forward.

  “Good morning, Lady June. Don’t you look lovely?” Ida taught me to compliment the ladies who come into the shop. They are there to buy image and vanity, she often reminds me, and will spend more if we boost their egos.

  “Is Ida in?” She won’t even look at me as she asks.

  “Ida is working on a bonnet at the moment and cannot be interrupted. May I be of assistance?”

  Lady June pulls off her black gloves one finger at a time and then lines them up and begins flipping them against one hand. She lets out a loud sigh and says, “I suppose,” as if having me assist her is the biggest imposition of her life. “It goes without saying I will be attending the Chicago Aid Society’s gala this Saturday afternoon.”

  “It wouldn’t be a proper event without you.”

  She stops flipping her gloves and looks at me, maybe deciding if I am being sarcastic or not. “Quite,” she says.

  I find myself watching her chins and feeling a bit disappointed that she is wearing a basic spoon bonnet without a feather to bounce along. It is far less entertaining.

  “And I have the need for a new parasol to reveal when I arrive at the gala. All of Europe is sporting parasols these days. They are a symbol of class and ideal femininity.”

  “So I’ve heard. Tell me, what did you have in mind?”

  “Something fresh and different. Something that will set me apart from the ladies who somehow finagle an invitation, but really have no business being there.”

  “And who have no idea what proper fashion is,” I add.

  She gives me another look but then seems to decide I am being serious. “You understand.”

  “Oh, I do, and I also understand how a person’s reputation can be destroyed if she shows up with the wrong accessories. Accessories are what make a quality citizen, after all.” I worry I have gone too far but Lady June only nods in agreement.

  “Ida has taught you well.”

  I am struck by how ridiculous this conversation is—especially given the post-fire environment of the city and the fact that this gala is meant to raise money for the needy. I doubt the families who huddle under the bridges at night, freezing and starving, care about what kind of lace is on Lady June’s parasol.

  Lady June continues, “And don’t show me anything remotely close to what has already been sold to other ladies who might be attending.”

  “Then I will put aside this special piece from Spain that was requested by Mrs. Carlson.” I am amazed at how quickly this idea and Mrs. Carlson’s name came to mind. I have not yet met her, but remember the name from my first encounter with Lady June. “Something she said her husband saw the queen of Spain carrying on his latest business trip to Europe,” I say.

  “John Carlson went to Europe? And met the queen of Spain? But his business is not international.”

  “That’s a new development,” I say, not even feeling bad for what I am doing. “It’s a secret.”

  Lady June’s chins quiver as she nods briefly and whispers, “I won’t breathe a word.”

  “Anyway,” I continue, “I guess all of Europe is talking about how fashionable the Spanish queen is, with her new style of parasol, and Mrs. Carlson insisted she have one exactly like it for this Saturday’s gala. Of course, she hasn’t actually paid for it, so I suppose it is technically still for sale.”

  “Show it to me at once.”

  I go over to the box we just received from our distributor that is full of the skeleton frames for parasols. Ida explained to me how the parasol frames are sent from New York and we stretch the fabric and lace across them to make a finished product. I pull out a simple wooden frame without a stitch of fabric on it, open it up, and twist it playfully on my shoulder. “Isn’t it lovely?”

  Lady June’s mouth hangs open. “But there is nothing to it. It’s an unfinished frame.”

  I shrug. “I guess that’s fashion. I don’t really understand it, either.”

  “I never said I did not understand fashion.” I can see Lady June is getting worked into a lather, as Father used to say.

  “Of course you didn’t, Lady June. I was just thinking a more traditional style of parasol might be a good choice for you. Maybe something like this Chantilly lace one we have hanging from the ceiling. Everyone is wearing Chantilly lace. Some say it has become common, but I think it’s beautiful. Don’t you?”

  “I have four Chantilly lace parasols already,” she says, as if I should somehow know that.

  “See? You do know what is in style.” I go behind the counter and begin wrapping the parasol frame in paper. “I’ll just set this aside for when Mrs. Carlson comes in this afternoon.”

  “I’ll take it,” Lady June says, though she sounds uncertain.

  “But it was ordered for—”

  “You did say that since it has not yet been paid for, it is technically still for sale, correct?”

  I run a hand along the end of the frame. “Yes.” I know what I am doing is wrong, and that Ida would be upset, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Lady June thinks I am nothing, just because I’m Irish. And there’s something about how she flaunts her opinions that angers me.

  “Then I’ll take it.” This time she sounds more certain of her decision. “Oh, how thrilling it will be to see the look on Marie Carlson’s face when I make my appearance.”

  “I have no doubt you’ll be the talk of the town,” I say.

  “How much is it?”

  “One dollar, seventy-five.”

  “But that’s the same price as a parasol that ha
s fabric on it.”

  “That’s true,” I say. “But you are also buying the guarantee that we won’t sell another parasol like this to anyone else, and Mrs. Carlson is going to be so disappointed. Besides, it was imported and the wood is a rare Spanish oak.” I honestly have no idea if such a thing even exists, but it sounds impressive.

  “Give it here, girl.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, wrapping a navy silk bow around the paper. Lady June drops her money on the counter, takes the umbrella frame, and hurries out the door. She has only been gone for a minute when Ida comes in from the storeroom.

  “Was there a customer?”

  “Lady June bought a parasol.”

  “Splendid.” Ida walks over to the counter and begins sorting pins into a box. “My late husband, Gunther, used to laugh at our store and say we sold everything that rendered a woman useless.”

  I smile, thinking about the completely worthless parasol Lady June just purchased and say, “He sounds like a smart man.”

  * * *

  Quinn always plays to the end of his song when I arrive to pick him up once I am finished at work. I don’t mind. It gives me a chance to hear him, even for a minute.

  He is playing at the bazaar today and I am intrigued by his hands. One runs the bow over the strings and the other moves along the fiddle’s neck, finding just the right note. His hands have never been soft because farming doesn’t allow for that—but they are still young. Today they seem larger. Stronger. A miniature version of Father’s, and looking at them makes me feel sad and think of precious Gertrude and her soft hands, which would get grimy from dipping them in the milk bucket before she petted our cows, Bonnie and Abigail. I wonder if Quinn ever thinks of Gertrude.

  We don’t talk about what happened in Peshtigo. We didn’t even talk about what we were seeing as we saw it. We just walked side by side and took it all in and, by some means, ended up at the church and eventually in Mr. Olsen’s carriage on our way to Chicago. It’s all a blur really, and I can’t honestly say what is a true memory anymore and what is from the terrible dreams that often trouble my sleep.

  “How’d it go?” I ask once Quinn stops playing and is putting the fiddle in the case.

  “Slow. I only made a dollar and fifty cents.”

  “That’s still more than I made and it is all adding up to something good. Hurry, school is getting out and Nettie will be waiting.”

  He flips the latch on the case shut and stands up. “She’s going to want to talk to that bird again, isn’t she?”

  “Probably.”

  And he is right. Nettie insists we stop by and visit Kristina, as she does most days.

  Quinn fidgets out at the street while Nettie and I go into the yard to see the chicken. The McGintys don’t know why Nettie has taken an interest in one of their hens, but they don’t seem to mind when we stop by.

  “It’s starting to snow again,” Quinn hollers at us from the road.

  Nettie crouches down next to Kristina, who is digging in the dirt and ignoring her completely. She strokes the chicken’s head with her pointer finger and carries on a one-sided conversation about how things are going in the coop at Miss Franny’s and asking if Kristina is getting along with her new chicken family. I know to hang back a few feet. Kristina still doesn’t like me much and it is Nettie’s time with her anyway.

  After a few minutes, Nettie stands up, turns to me, and says, “Kristina forgives you.”

  “For saving her life? How very nice.”

  Nettie smiles and shoves her hands into her coat pockets. “Yep,” she says. “That’s the kind of chicken she is. Nice.”

  When we return to Quinn he says, “Let’s go already. It’s really starting to snow and I’m freezing.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say.

  “I’m the one standing outside in the cold all day,” he goes on. “I want to get warm for once.”

  I give him a look. Nettie knows we are both working, but we haven’t told her exactly where we go each day because I don’t want to put her in a position where she might accidentally slip and tell someone. She only knows we are both learning a lot and getting things ready for when we can move out of Miss Franny’s place and find one of our own. That’s all she needs to know and I don’t want Quinn shooting his mouth off.

  “Why are you outside all day, Quinn?” Nettie asks, as I knew she would.

  “Never mind him,” I say. “He just likes to complain.”

  Quinn stops walking. “I’m the one who complains?”

  I pull on his sleeve. “Come on, I’ll boil some water for tea. That’ll warm you up.”

  “Miss Franny doesn’t like to share her tea,” Nettie says. “Or her cocoa.”

  “Then we’ll have plain water,” I say. “At least it will be warm.”

  But when we get back to the boardinghouse and no one is looking, I pinch some sugar into the mugs. It looks like plain water so Miss Franny can’t say anything, but it tastes so sweet.

  “Mmmm,” Nettie says when she sits down at the kitchen table and sips her cup.

  “It’s magical water,” I whisper. “I made it with a wish.”

  “A candy wish,” Nettie whispers.

  Quinn rolls his eyes and turns sideways in his chair, looking off into the front room, but I notice he drinks every drop.

  8

  The next morning it is still snowing, which makes me feel gloomy. People describe snow as soft and light and airy. Delicate even. They sing songs about snowflakes flitting through the air and landing gently on noses. It’s easy to get caught up in these false ideas, especially if you’ve never had to live and work in true winter conditions. The truth about snow is that it’s as heavy as a brick and can make your life miserable when it wants to.

  Mother used to worry about the snow every time it started. I guess it came from a situation when I was just a baby. There was a blizzard so fierce that, no matter how much Father tried to shovel it away from the house, he couldn’t keep up with it. The snow didn’t stop for five days straight and by the time it did, we were completely snowed in. It was so deep it covered our door and all of our windows. The only thing allowing us to breathe was the chimney, which poked up out of the top of all those feet of white powder. Mother said we lost our livestock and nearly starved to death. Ever since then she warned me not to be fooled by the pretty appearance of falling snow. Wisconsin snow, she said, is nothing like the stuff people sing about. It is mindless and heartless. In fact, snowy days were the only times she ever talked about going back to Ireland.

  When I come into the kitchen, I hear a shovel scraping against the front steps and know it is Quinn. Miss Franny has taken to working us for an hour or two before school as well as the five after. Mr. Olsen may have negotiated our freedom during school hours but she is getting nearly a full day’s work from us all the same.

  “Will you make a snowman with me, Ailis?” Nettie asks, running her finger against the inside of her bowl to get the last gummy piece of oatmeal.

  “I have to grind the wheat for bread,” I say. “I don’t have time for a snowman.”

  “Not even a little snowman?”

  I sit down next to her and rest my head on the table. It is exhausting to work for Ida and still try to keep Miss Franny happy. “And I have to do all the breakfast dishes. Besides, I hate the snow.”

  My head is down and my eyes are closed so I don’t see Nettie’s face, but I hear her suck in her breath. “You shouldn’t hate anything,” she says. “Sister Baldwin says hate kills your heart as fast as a wink.”

  Nettie likes to quote the nuns from her orphanage from time to time. Especially when I am tired and thin on patience.

  “I bet Sister Baldwin has never been snowed in and almost died from starvation. Or lost all of her animals because her barn roof collapsed from the weight of the snow. Or got her wagon stuck in a drift, making her walk three miles home. I’ve experienced all of those things and, believe me, it’s no picnic.”

  I keep my h
ead down because, even though Nettie is silent, I know she has a look on her face and I don’t want to see that look just now.

  “Okay, Ailis,” she says after a minute. “You don’t have to.”

  I feel awful and consider going outside with her, but Miss Franny comes into the kitchen and starts slamming things around saying, “I’m glad you feel so relaxed, sleeping when this kitchen needs so much work.”

  I take Nettie’s bowl and spoon and get started on the breakfast dishes.

  And when my morning work is done and both Quinn and Nettie are waiting for me, we say goodbye to Sam (who takes over the shoveling) and head down the street.

  We get about three houses away before our shoes are soaked through.

  “Jump on my back,” I say to Nettie.

  But Quinn says he has a better idea and hands me his fiddle before returning to the boardinghouse for a shovel. “I’ll walk ahead and push the snow aside with this shovel and you both can follow single file behind.”

  “Miss Franny won’t like it,” Nettie says, rubbing her hand under her nose.

  “Miss Franny has two shovels,” Quinn assures her. “So she won’t notice if one is missing. I’ll keep it safe with me and return it when we come home this afternoon. She can’t get mad if she doesn’t know about it.”

  “And we’re doing a service for the city of Chicago by shoveling some of their snow,” I add. “It’s a good deed.”

  Nettie slows her hand and then puts it in her coat pocket with a solid nod, which Quinn takes to mean she agrees with his plan. And so he starts out ahead of us, pushing the snow aside in mounds as he goes down the street.

  Before long, other children on their way to school join our line—one by one, with their mothers or aunties or whoever waving at Quinn from their porches like he is the cleverest boy in the world. Nettie walks right behind him and me behind her. She is lifting her knees in a marching sort of way and swinging her arms and the words come to my mind, Nettie is a precious soul.

  * * *

  It is still snowing at three o’clock when Quinn and I go to meet Nettie at the buckeye tree.