by Tess Hilmo
“That will help some,” Mr. Olsen says. “I’ll put a few feelers out and be in touch if I hear anything. I’m sorry there is not more I can offer.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Mr. Olsen stands up. “In the meantime, remember you are both children yourselves. Be careful who you question and where you search. You don’t want to end up in the same situation.”
“I’d never let that happen,” Quinn says.
“These people are not to be trifled with,” Mr. Olsen says. “A child is nothing against their type of evil. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
I can see Quinn is bothered by being called a child twice in a row but he nods as Mr. Olsen walks us to the back door, where a work wagon is parked. “My driver will return you to the boardinghouse. You shouldn’t be walking the streets at night.” We thank Mr. Olsen once more and climb up on the front bench of a simple buckboard.
The driver is a quiet man and we are left alone with our thoughts. The moon, heavy and low, pours silver light out across Chicago’s empty streets. All those people crowding the sidewalks on our way to Mr. Olsen’s have disappeared. The only sound is the wheels crunching against dirty snow and the steady clopping of the horse’s hooves.
I lean in to Quinn and whisper, “I can’t stop thinking about what Mr. Olsen said.”
Quinn just nods.
I look at the piles of rubble and empty lots where buildings have been demolished. Here in the dark it seems as if anyone could be lurking behind the half-tumbled walls.
We ride in silence the rest of the way back to the boardinghouse. When we arrive, Miss Franny is angry we missed our chores and has a list waiting for us to start first thing in the morning.
After we settle down for bed, Quinn says, “That was some house. We could live there without him even noticing.”
“The servants would notice,” I say.
“They would just think we were other servants. New servants. Did you see all those books?”
I think Quinn would have been quite a scholar had our cranberry farm allowed him the opportunity. “I saw them,” I say.
Quinn rolls over and quickly falls asleep.
I close my eyes, but sleep seems far away. Instead, images of Nettie keep coming to mind. Scenes of her being dragged off by some brutish thug and sold into slavery. Mental pictures of her asking about when she can return to school or see Quinn and me again—and being told, Never.
I can’t stand how those thoughts make me feel so I get up, light a small lamp, and begin washing dinner dishes. I work through the night—scrubbing the grime on the wall behind the stove, wiping down the pantry shelves, and quietly humming an Irish tune. It is one I remember Mother humming while we milked the cows. It is winsome and happy and helps keep my mind clear.
12
Before morning light even has a chance to slide through the cracks of the house, I pull back the curtains in the front room and look out the window to the trees along the side of the yard.
“What’d ya go and do that for?” Quinn groans.
“It’s morning.”
“Barely. The rooster hasn’t even crowed yet and Miss Franny’s not awake.”
I cinch the tie on the curtain as Miss Franny’s voice comes down the hallway. “I’m always awake.” She stops in the doorway. “Get your lazy-rat bones off my floor already.”
I don’t know if it is the lack of sleep or the stress of everything that is happening—or perhaps both—but seeing Miss Franny makes my blood boil in my veins and, even though I know it is not true, I find myself blurting out the meanest thing I can think of. “Did you sell Nettie?”
Quinn is picking up his blanket and freezes mid-fold.
Miss Franny puts her fists on her hips. “That girl is dim-witted and sickly. How could I sell something so pathetic, even if I wanted to? Who would pay?” The anger is making a muscle under her right eye twitch. “If you want someone to blame, you should take a good look in the mirror.”
“How is it my fault?”
“Do you think I am a fool? I know you are not really attending school. When I went by to ask about Nettie, the teacher had no idea who you were. Maybe if you weren’t such a selfish liar, you would have watched over her.”
She is still standing halfway across the room, but it is like she reached out and punched me in the gut. I keep my voice low and strong. “Things like flowers and trees and smoke make Nettie’s nose runny, but you know she’s not dim-witted.”
Miss Franny inspects her fingernails casually, trying to look calm. “Blame me all you want, but we both know you are the one responsible. Whatever happens to that girl is on your head.” She quits looking at her hand and shoots me a glare. “So much for the perfect Ailis Doyle.”
Sam comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist. “Aw, ease up on the kid, Fran.”
She pushes him off and flits her eyes over to Quinn and me. “I don’t really care what you liars do as long as you finish your work here first.”
I take off through the kitchen, out the back door, and sit down on the last step.
Quinn comes out after me and says, “You know Miss Franny is wrong. What happened to Nettie isn’t your fault.”
I’m not convinced. “I just don’t know how Sam can stand her.”
“Maybe it’s all the ale he drinks.”
I smile and look out of the corner of my eye at Quinn. “At least it sounds as if she’s going to leave us alone a bit.”
“As long as we keep waking up at five in the morning to do her work.”
“True,” I say.
“Let’s get walking,” he says, reaching down to take my hand and help me up.
“Will you play by Ida’s today?” I ask.
“No. Her shop isn’t busy enough for me and the butcher shop is played out. It’s time for a new corner.”
I want Quinn to play where I can watch over him, but I know he has his own mind. So we head into the city and find a busy corner where three pushcarts are clustered around a blazing fire pit. One vendor is selling strips of dried and salted pig fat, another is selling hot coffee, and the last is selling trinkets and velvet bags. It is an unusual assortment but the street is busy and it seems a safe enough place to leave Quinn.
“Be careful,” I say, expecting him to roll his eyes or tell me he isn’t a baby.
But he doesn’t. He just dips his chin in agreement and says, “You too.”
I watch him find an open spot close to the fire and set his fiddle case down. He unlatches one lock and is starting to unlatch the other when a man comes up to him and says something, waving a hand wildly. I notice he holds a mouth harp in the other hand. It is a teardrop-shaped instrument that you pluck against your mouth.
Quinn relocks his fiddle case and comes over to me.
“What’d he say?” I ask.
“He told me to scram. He said it was his corner and that I was trying to steal a piece of his action.”
“What action?”
“Exactly,” Quinn says.
“Come to Ida’s with me.”
“Forget it,” Quinn says. “I’m not going to let this guy win. I’m going to stand right next to him and show him how it’s really done.”
“You don’t know anything about that guy,” I say. “He could be dangerous.”
“He’s a lousy drunk with a mouth harp. And he’s half my weight. I could knock him out cold if I had to.”
It’s true. The man is grown, but he is short and scrawny. “Some fights aren’t worth having.”
“I’ll let my music do the fighting for me.”
I have a minute before Ida is expecting me so I stay on the street by Quinn and watch him play.
It is an interesting duel of sorts. Quinn plays his best music, twisting and bouncing to the tunes like Father often did. In response, the drunk plucks twangy songs out on his mouth harp. They stare each other down, but they are polite and each waits for the other’s song to finish before taking his next turn.
&
nbsp; As they play back and forth, a crowd begins to gather. Brick masons and shopkeepers and mothers and men in dark suits all bundled in coats and scarves. The people cheer and turn from one side of the street to the other with each song.
People drop some money into the man’s hat but the coins fall like raindrops into Quinn’s fiddle case.
After four rounds of songs, the man picks up his hat, nods at Quinn as if to say, you win, and goes into the pub three doors down. That causes the crowd to cheer even louder and toss another round of coins at Quinn’s feet.
When everyone disperses, Quinn gathers the money and asks, “Who’s the fool now?”
“I’ve got to go to work,” I say, ignoring his question.
“I’ll come with you. I’ve made enough money for now.”
“Thanks.”
As we start walking, we hear the tolling of bells and stop on a corner as a funeral procession comes down the street. A wagon carries a small pine coffin. Clearly, it is a child being taken to the cemetery. The horses pulling the wagon are draped in heavy black fabric with gold tassels hanging from the corners. The women wear crepe veils of black and the men wear black suits. A boy, about ten years old, walks behind the procession carrying a large black feather on a golden stick. One man on each side swings a brass bell, warding off evil and warning traffic of the coming procession.
Traffic parts and pedestrians move to the sidewalk.
I look over to Quinn, whose face is the same flat gray color as the sky.
When the procession finally passes and is down the road a good distance, he turns to me. “We need to find her, Ailis. We need to find her soon.”
I am entirely without words so I just follow Quinn over to Ida’s shop. It feels wrong going into work after watching that funeral procession, but I have to do it. It’s not that Ida doesn’t want us to look for Nettie—she would understand. But there is nowhere new to look and nothing else to do but wait to hear from Mr. Olsen.
“Any news?” Ida asks as we come through the door.
I shake my head.
“Aye, do not worry, Liebling, angels will surely watch over one so small.”
“What’s a Liebling?” Quinn asks.
“It’s a term of endearment. It’s German,” Greta says from her spot behind the counter.
Quinn smiles at the girl and I am annoyed. “Quinn offered to help today,” I say to Ida, “since we’re so busy with holiday orders.” Maybe the new girl is pretty and German, but Quinn and I can outwork anyone.
“I’ll not trust those big hands with a needle,” Ida says, “but it would be nice if the windows could be washed. There is still so much soot and grime that gets kicked up into the air.”
“Where can I find a bucket?” Quinn asks.
“In the storeroom, and there is a pump for water as well.”
Quinn goes to get the water and I sit down to finish sewing lavender ribbon on a pair of white gloves.
“Do you ever think of going home?” Ida asks me, her hands busy cutting felt.
“I don’t have a home.”
“Did your parents not own your farm?”
I am surprised. “You mean go back to Peshtigo? There’s nothing left.”
“There is land, yes? Earth to till and a flat spot to rebuild a small cottage. Maybe there is even a place for a row of carrots or patch of peas?”
The lavender ribbon bunches up on my thread, causing a ripple in the trim. I start unpicking my stitches to smooth it out. “I don’t know,” I say. “It’s too hard to think about now. Do you ever consider going back to Germany?”
Ida sighs. “All the time. But it is too late for an old woman like me.”
Greta joins in. “Do you remember spring in Deutschland, Ida? The festivals?”
“Aye, how could I not?”
Greta starts talking in German and takes Ida’s attention. I don’t know what they are saying but whatever it is, it makes the delicate lines around Ida’s blue eyes bunch up into a smile.
It is good to see her happy, but I can’t help feeling a touch of jealousy at how well they seem to get along. At what they have in common.
“I suppose spring is beautiful wherever you live,” I say, trying to join their conversation.
“Perhaps,” Ida says. “But nothing compares to spring in your homeland. Those memories are just a little brighter, just a little warmer than any others.”
Greta smiles and I feel excluded again. Why should I even care? “Oh, no!” I say as the lavender ribbon knots up.
Ida puts her work down and comes over to me. “You should go look for your friend,” she says. “Your mind is not on the work and I don’t blame you.”
“There’s nowhere else to look.”
“Can the police help?”
“They told us not to get our hopes up.”
“The police,” Ida says, going over to her table. “Dummkopf! These police, what do they know about anything?”
“Mr. Olsen thinks she has been sold.”
Ida stills her needle in the air. “I have heard of such things happening.”
I hang my head and let the tears slide down my cheeks, making wet splotches on the ribbon in my hands.
Quinn comes in from the storeroom, holding a bucket of water in one hand and rags in the other. “What happened?” he asks when he sees me.
Ida hurries over to my side and begins patting my shoulder. “Do not cry.”
“It’s all right,” Quinn says. “It helps.”
I look at my brother through my tears and wonder how he knows that. “I’m afraid I have ruined these gloves,” I say to Ida.
“They will dry. No one will be able to tell.” Then she claps her hands. “I think it is time for Schokoladentorte.”
“Chocolate cake?” I ask, remembering the word.
“I have some upstairs. All of us, we will go.”
“What about the customers who are coming to pick up their goods?”
“I’ll put a sign in the window for them to knock,” Ida says, walking over to my side. “I know you are worried about your friend, but if she truly has been sold then she is still alive, yes? And sleeping under a roof and eating something each day? Mr. Olsen is a powerful man. He will help you find her.” Then her dusty blue eyes get all soft. “There is a saying I remember from when I was a girl, Liebe ist wie Wasser. It means, Love is like water. You see, when love hits a wall, it doesn’t stop. It just bends around the wall and keeps flowing. Your friend Nettie knows she is loved and that will carry her through this terrible time.” Then she tugs on her apron. “We Germans drink ale or eat cake at times of happiness and also at times of sadness. You are too young for ale, so you must have cake.”
Ida locks the door, puts a sign in the window, and then leads me and Greta up the stairs to her apartment. Quinn offers to stay and wash the windows but Ida tells him it would be rude not to eat with the rest of us. That makes Quinn smile and put down his cloth and tell her he would hate to offend her by turning down cake. Maybe, he says, he should even eat extra to show proper respect.
When we get to Ida’s apartment above the shop, she pulls down five china plates and slices five pieces of cake. One for herself, one for Greta, an oversize piece for Quinn, one for me, and then one for Nettie. When I ask her about the last slice, Ida says, “We will live as if she could walk through our door at any minute and, someday soon, it will happen.”
13
Miss Franny slaps her ankle as I finish wiping down the breakfast table Monday morning and says, “I think that was a flea.”
“You don’t have house pets. Everyone knows fleas can’t live without a host animal, especially in December.”
“That is true, and you are a lazy rat. A rat who brings fleas into my house.” She pinches another nonexistent flea from her skirt and says, “You probably picked them up from that O’Leary family.”
I think of Mrs. O’Leary. I stopped by to check on her, but she wouldn’t come to the door. “Mrs. O’Leary has locked herself
up in her house and won’t even come outside anymore,” I say. “I haven’t seen her in weeks.”
“A woman that filthy doesn’t have to come out of her house to give you fleas. Just walking on her side of the road is enough.”
It is a horrible thing to say and Miss Franny knows it. Catherine and Patrick O’Leary were completely exonerated from any charges related to Chicago’s fire. The commission found no evidence they were in the barn and said the fire could have been started by any number of things, including a stray spark from a chimney or a passerby with a pipe.
Miss Franny is aware of the facts but, along with most of Chicago, wants to keep believing that the O’Learys are guilty.
“Is there anything more I can do before I leave?” I ask, ignoring her comment.
“Are the chickens fed?”
“Yes.”
“And their coop cleaned?”
“I cleaned it yesterday.”
She thinks a bit. “What about the kitchen and dishes?”
“Finished.”
“Ironing?”
“Folded and put on the hall table.”
“Fine, go. But watch where you walk and what you pick up along the way. Fleas were not part of the deal when you were given a room.”
“Quinn and I don’t have a room. You make us sleep on the floor.” The yellow-toothed boarder is gone and another hasn’t come, but she still makes us sleep on the front rug.
She slaps at her ankle again. “Which is why my floor is now covered with bloodsucking fleas.”
Two women boarders start down the stairs. Miss Franny stands up tall and whispers, “Go on before you scare away my paying customers with that cabbage face of yours.”
“I’m leaving,” I say, taking my coat from the nail by the back door and going outside to meet Quinn.
Sam is helping him chop the wood.
“Why do you love Miss Franny?” I ask him.