Cinnamon Moon

by Tess Hilmo

  He stops chopping. “Who said anything about love?”

  “I saw you put your arms around her.”

  “Fran and I have a sort of symbiotic relationship. We lean on each other because we have no one else.”

  “You have me and Quinn.”

  “Not exactly what I mean, but thanks all the same.” He swings his ax down into another log. “Even the hardest woman has a soft side. It just takes the right man to find it.”

  “Any word on Nettie yet?” I ask him, wanting to change the subject. Sam has been asking around at various pubs, listening to the news that slides along the underbelly of the city.

  “Not yet, but I’m keeping my ear to the ground.”

  “It’d be nice if we could bring her home before Christmas,” Quinn says. “It’s next Monday, you know. Just one week from today.”

  Sam moves his ax up to his shoulder. “Ah, joyous Noel.” There is definite sarcasm in his words.

  I can’t imagine having Christmas without Mother, Father, and Gertrude. And knowing Nettie will be gone makes it worse. “This coming Monday will be like any other day,” I say. “We have nothing to celebrate.”

  “You can’t ignore Christmas,” Quinn says. “Do you think Miss Franny will let us light a candle in the window on Christmas Eve?”

  It is an Irish tradition to have the youngest child light a candle and place it in the front room window on Christmas Eve. Mother was the youngest in her family and spoke fondly of her memories of being the candle girl when she was growing up. Gertrude only got to light the candle one year—she was too young before that.

  “Of course, it should be Nettie who lights it, since she’s the youngest,” Quinn says, his voice falling back down into a sad, low place as he remembers how the tradition works.

  “You can light it for her,” Sam says. “Just this year.”

  “Miss Franny’s not going to let us decorate her house or have any part in her holiday,” I say.

  “I might be able to convince her otherwise,” Sam says.

  “Don’t bother.” I’m not about to celebrate anything—much less Christmas—with the likes of Miss Franny. “Let’s go,” I say to Quinn. “I can’t be late for work.”

  I don’t need Quinn to tell me Christmas is coming. I see it in every moment of every day. It is a circle of holly on someone’s door and a simple red ribbon on a lamppost. It is a song drifting out from behind church windows and the clean scent of a rare pine tree still left on the edge of the city. It is white snowflakes falling out of a mostly blue sky. It is children laughing.

  No matter how I’ve tried, I can’t escape it.

  * * *

  “You will come next Monday, yes?” Ida asks for the fourth time.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You will come. And Quinn will come. And we will set a place at our table for Nettie.”

  “What about Greta?” I ask.

  “She has family to spend the holiday with. I have given her a week off and, because business has been so good, I’ve asked her to come back again after the New Year.”

  I keep sweeping the shop floor.

  “It would be unkind to leave an old woman alone on Christmas,” she says. “You must do me this one favor. I ask so little.”

  I sweep the pile of dirt into a corner. “Okay,” I say. And then, because I know she is just trying to help, “Thank you.” I don’t want to celebrate Christmas, but being with Ida will be better than staying at the boardinghouse.

  “Good!” Ida claps her hands.

  I’m leaning over, sweeping my pile of dirt onto a dustpan, when the bell above the door chimes.

  “Hello, Ida.”

  I immediately recognize the voice as Lady June’s and stay hunched over in the corner, wishing I could disappear into the woodwork.

  “Good morning,” Ida says. “Don’t you look lovely in your purple cloak. And that brooch, oh my! I have never seen anything so fine.”

  “It once belonged to the Duchess of Yorkshire,” Lady June says, referring to the brooch. “It’s a royal jewel.”

  “Then it is befitting for you to wear it,” Ida goes on.

  I can’t see how Lady June responds, but I imagine her chins quivering and her head nodding in agreement.

  And then Ida asks the question. The one I was dreading but knew was coming. “How was the benefit gala?”

  I try to shrink down farther into the corner.

  “That is what I came to speak to you about,” Lady June says.

  “Tell me,” Ida says.

  I feel a flush across my cheeks.

  “You in the corner,” Lady June says, “come over here.”

  I stand up and turn around. Secretly, I have allowed myself to dream of apprenticing under Ida and being able to open a millinery shop of my own someday. But those ambitions now feel like a delicate spiderweb this clodhopping woman is about to tromp through and destroy. She is going to expose me for the mean-spirited girl I am. What choice will Ida have but to fire me? Perhaps Miss Franny has been right about me all along.

  “Yes, ma’am?” I say, trying to hold my voice steady.

  “You are the one responsible.” Lady June is pointing her sausage finger at my face. “It is because of you that everyone was staring at me.”

  I drop my head and begin to apologize but she surprises me by slapping her hands down onto her skirt and saying, “It was a dilly of an afternoon! Even the mayor was craning his neck to get a look at my parasol as I walked into the event. I was the talk of the city!” Then she turns her attention to Ida. “Truth be told, I don’t believe you should hire her kind to deal with money and customers. The Irish are known thieves and best at menial labor, behind the scenes. That is why my husband uses them in the sewers for his business. However, this is an exception to that rule.” Her finger is wagging in my face again. “Despite the blood running through this peasant’s veins, she has been able to learn under your diligent tutelage. Well done, Ida Muench.”

  I can’t believe my luck! Lady June is so stuck on herself she mistook people’s shock for adoration.

  “It’s not fair to say the Irish—” Ida begins, but I jump over to her side.

  “Thank you, Lady June. You are most kind.” I give a small curtsy. “We are blessed to be in your service.”

  Lady June smiles, causing her chins to jiggle some more. “Yes,” she says, “you are.”

  She turns and walks out the door.

  “That woman,” Ida says, shaking her head. “I have known her for years. She comes off as high society but the truth is she grew up middle class and married into money. Not even old money, either. Her husband runs Chicago’s biggest rat extermination company. Absolute Exterminators. That’s the business she was referring to.”

  “She gets all her money from killing rats?”

  “Of course she doesn’t do the work herself.” Ida goes back to her table. “Her husband has a large crew and I hear business has been good since the fire.”

  “Wow, all that money from rats.”

  Ida begins threading a needle. “My Gunther always said a job is a job. Honest work shouldn’t be judged, but I do believe Lady June overcompensates for a few things. No matter how she tries, she’ll never fit in with the upper crust of Chicago. She knows it and all those snobs she associates with know it, too. It’s not enough to have wealth. High-society people believe it must come from the right source. The truth about Lady June is, a million dollars of rat money will—in the end—still be rat money.”

  14

  Quinn and I go to Christmas Eve Mass at Father Farlane’s church. We aren’t looking for spiritual guidance. We are looking for Charlie. So I change into one of Ida’s dresses that I have started keeping in the shed and walk to church with the rest of the Irish quarter. Christmas Eve and Easter are the two holidays when almost all of us Catholics attend Mass, so the church is packed to the rafters.

  “I don’t see him,” I whisper to Quinn as we find seats in a pew near the rear of the bu
ilding.

  “We just got here,” Quinn says. “Be patient.”

  It is cold outside, but the building is warm from so many people crowding in together. I take off my coat and stretch my neck up, looking across the crowd for a bald head. There are several of them, but none belong to Charlie.

  Father Farlane’s voice rings out from the altar, filling the room with echoes of chants and song. As a group, we stand and sit and then we kneel and stand again. I glance over to Quinn. “Are you looking for him?” I ask.

  He gives me a shush look, like I am being irreverent, and then speaks in unison with the crowd.

  I am on my own.

  “Wait here,” I say, ducking down past Quinn and into the side aisle. I stand with my back against the high stone wall of the church and inch down the walkway as I scan each row of parishioners.

  At one point I pass by a boy about four years old who is the last person in the row, standing next to someone who must be his mother. She is busy participating in the Mass, but he waves to get my attention and then points up to the ceiling where a brown bird is flying in circles high above our heads.

  I keep my hand next to my body but point a finger up, letting him know I see the bird, too. Then I smile, wave goodbye, and move on down the rows, back on the hunt for bald heads.

  When I finally work my way up to the front, I see Charlie. He is standing in the middle of a row of children who are wearing mostly tattered clothing. I have no doubt they are displaced orphans.

  His signature toothpick is sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Who chews a toothpick in church?

  Charlie turns and stares straight at me with an awful smile. He twirls his toothpick and winks.

  I run—flat-out run—up the aisle to where Quinn is sitting.

  “What are you doing?” he whispers. “You shouldn’t be running in church.”

  I saw Charlie, I mouth, sliding in next to him.

  Quinn stands on his tiptoes and looks down to the front. “I don’t see him.”

  “Trust me, he’s there. He’s with a bunch of orphans, too. Probably picking them off one by one.”

  The lady behind us leans forward and tells us to hush. I apologize and Quinn lowers his voice again. “I want to talk to him afterward. I have an idea.”

  “What kind of idea?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Quinn goes back to following the service, but I can’t concentrate on a single thing. I sit on the bench and double over, resting my head against my knees. The thought of Nettie being in the hands of a louse like Charlie makes the acid in my stomach roll up into my throat. I try to breathe slowly and fight to keep from vomiting all over Father Farlane’s floor.

  * * *

  When the last hymn is over and people have begun filing out the doors I say, “Maybe we should talk to the other orphans.”

  “You go ahead,” Quinn says. “I want to speak with Charlie before he leaves. I should do it alone.”

  “No way.”

  “Charlie knows who you are. He’ll be more careful with what he says. I’m going to ask him if he knows of any work. I’ll say I lost my family in the fire and that someone on the street said he might be able to help me.”

  “He’s dangerous,” I say, my whisper sharp and direct. “I should stay with you.”

  “If he’s innocent, he’ll say he can’t help me. But if he’s taking children, he’ll be very interested in my problem. If you’re there, standing at my side, he won’t fall for the bait.” Quinn stands up. “I’m going to wait by the main doors. Everyone seems to be going out that way.”

  I really want to talk to the other children, but am more concerned about leaving Quinn alone with Charlie. I push through the crowd behind my brother. “I’m not leaving you.”

  He sighs. “At least hide behind those curtains.”

  I look over to the red velvet fabric flanking a large stained-glass window depicting a tree in the Garden of Eden.

  “Hurry,” Quinn says.

  “Promise me you’ll stay here and not go out the door with him,” I say.

  “I can handle myself.”

  I catch Quinn’s gaze and give him the most serious look I can manage. Then I step behind the curtain.

  Nearly everyone leaves before Charlie comes down the aisle. He is talking to a little girl with blond curls, but a woman steps into the doorway and calls her name.

  “Bye, Charlie,” the girl says, leaving with the woman.

  “So, you’re Charlie? From the orphanage?” Quinn asks, coming out to meet him in the aisle.

  I stay behind the curtain, watching through a slit in the fabric.

  I can barely hear what they are saying. Quinn asks about work. Charlie moves his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other and I hear him say something about earning more money than Quinn can imagine. And also something about being part of a new family.

  At one point, Charlie tries to put his arm around Quinn, but my brother is smart enough to step back. “Let me think about it,” I hear Quinn say. “I’ll let you know next Sunday.”

  Charlie shifts awkwardly and then smiles his slimy grin. “Sure, kid,” he says. Father Farlane comes up behind Quinn, which makes Charlie leave.

  “Any word on your friend?” Father Farlane asks Quinn.

  “Not yet.”

  I slide out from the curtain.

  “Well,” Father Farlane says, “I’m keeping her in my prayers.”

  Quinn thanks him and when we are sure Charlie is long gone we walk out and stand at the side of the church. I button my coat. At some point, I had put the yellow chalk in my coat pocket so I pull it out and draw a flower on the stone wall of the building.

  “Should you be doing that?” Quinn asks.

  I ignore him. “What’d Charlie say?”

  “He said the work wasn’t fancy but if you aren’t afraid of dark, tight places, then you can make a living.”

  “Doing what?”

  Quinn takes the chalk out of my hand and says, “Catching rats.”

  * * *

  The next day is Christmas and we are at Ida’s. When I tell her that we saw Charlie, she says, “Do not worry so much, Liebling.”

  Quinn says, “It’s not fair for you to ruin everyone’s Christmas.”

  Still, I can’t put my worries about Nettie aside. “Charlie said there is work killing rats,” I tell Ida as she cuts into a fruitcake. “He even offered Quinn a job.”

  “That doesn’t seem right,” Ida says. “What good would a child be against an army of rats?”

  I chew on my bottom lip and think about Lady June and her husband’s business.

  Ida puts a piece of fruitcake, which she calls Stollen, in front of me and pours milk into my glass. Then she serves Quinn the same thing and sits down. “I know you are worried about your friend,” she says. “And with good cause. But you need to look at the matter in a different light. For Nettie’s sake, you must choose to be positive. Let me tell you a story.”

  I’m not in the mood for a story so I begin picking the dried cherries and raisins out of my cake and placing them along the strip of gold that rims my plate.

  “I came to America as a young bride,” Ida begins. “Barely twenty years old with nothing but a few coins and a husband who loved me. It was enough.

  “The only English words I knew were apple and cat. Can you believe it? I’m not even sure where I learned those two words. Oh, what a mess I was in.” She laughs to herself. “But then Gunther found a woman who offered English lessons. We didn’t have money to pay her so he told her I would make her a bonnet—the most beautiful bonnet she would ever own—if only she would be our teacher. Lucky for us, she said yes.”

  Once all the fruit is picked out of the cake, I start with the nuts. I am slowly shredding Ida’s hard work but she ignores it and keeps telling her story.

  “Learning English came easy for Gunther, but was very hard for me,” Ida says. “I’m still learning it, really. At the beginning, it felt impossibl
e. The words are so different from my beautiful German language. And the verbs! Those were the most difficult of all.”

  I pop a dried cherry in my mouth and chew slowly.

  “My teacher worked hard to help me understand the verbs—to walk, to eat, to dance, to speak. He walks, I walk, we are walking … it was all so challenging.”

  I look over at Quinn, who is on the edge of his seat, lost in Ida’s story, and I wonder what any of this has to do with Nettie.

  “But do you know what the most important verb in the English language is?”

  I eat another cherry and, when I realize she has stopped talking and is looking at me with wide, expectant eyes, say, “Are you asking me?”

  “Of course I am asking you.”

  “Not really.”

  “It is the verb to be. I am, you are, she is … Can you think of anything more important than those words?”

  I swallow the cherry, thinking.

  She goes on. “I am Ida. You are Ailis. She is Nettie. This is Quinn.” She touches his shoulder. “There is great power in those words. How else can we use the to be verb? Let’s try I am happy, you are strong, she is going to be found.”

  I fidget with a walnut on my plate, looking down.

  “Now you try,” Ida says, lifting my chin to meet her gaze. “You show me how you understand the power of that verb.”

  Water rims my eyes and I blink quickly, trying to push back the tears.

  Ida sits patiently.

  Finally, I say, “I am Ailis, you are Ida, she is Nettie.”

  “What else?” Ida whispers.

  I swallow again. “I am a survivor, you are my friend, she is brave.”

  “Yes,” Ida says softly. Then she looks to Quinn. “Your turn.”

  Quinn nods. “I am Quinn, you are Ida, and she is Ailis.” He tilts his head in my direction when he says my name and I am surprised he pulled me into his to be list.

  “And?” Ida says.

  Quinn goes on. “I am strong, you are old, and she is a better-than-average sister.”

  “Humph,” Ida says. “Old?”

  The side of Quinn’s mouth twitches up into a half smile.

  “Fine,” Ida says. “You are strong, Ailis is a wonderful sister, and I am an old woman.” She turns to me. “Isn’t it interesting how a single verb can change your vision? Choose to conjugate your life with positivity.” Ida stands up and goes over to her stove. “We only have one Christmas each year and I have spent the last eight of them by myself. This year I am blessed to have company at my table. I do not want to let it pass without celebration.”