Cinnamon Moon

by Tess Hilmo

  “Yes,” Nettie says, pulling herself out of the pipe, “but I don’t think this medicine is working because they keep dying.” It is dark, with only a lantern and our candles to light the space, but I can see that her dress is sopping wet with black sewage and her hair is knotted in masses around her head.

  The lantern boy smirks. “Well, we will just have to keep trying. Doctor’s orders.”

  Nettie looks at the dead rats in her hand. “Poor things.”

  “It’s good we take the sick ones out, so they don’t hurt the healthy ones,” the boy keeps on. Then he turns to Sam and me. “Be on your way.”

  That makes Nettie squinch her eyes in the dark and look past the lantern boy to where we are. “Ailis!” she hollers, dropping the rats into the sludge-water below and running—as fast as she can on the ledge—toward us.

  “Aw, what’d you drop them for?” the boy whines. “You know we get paid by the head. That’s three cents down the drain.”

  The rope around their waists pulls tight. “Quit your jawing and get to work,” a voice says from above.

  “The brat dropped three good ones,” the lantern boy hollers up the manhole.

  Nettie steps onto the platform and throws her arms out wide, but the lantern boy grabs her by the neck. “Where do you think you’re goin’?”

  “Let her go,” I say, pulling on her arm.

  He just pulls at her neck harder. “No way.”

  Sam steps in. “You’re hurting her, both of you.”

  I can see he is right, so I let go. The boy keeps his hand around the back of her neck.

  “Did you come to help the rats, too?” Nettie asks.

  “I came to find you,” I say.

  The boy tightens his grip and Nettie flinches. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she says.

  “Yeah,” the boy chimes in, “that was stupid. Brat Girl’s got a good job working to better the city of Chicago. Isn’t that right, Brat Girl?”

  “Her name is Nettie.”

  “Whatever.”

  “And she belongs with us.”

  The boy pulls Nettie in to his side with one hand and holds the lantern up a bit higher with the other. The yellow glow of light shimmers against his skin. I swear his two front teeth are shaved into sharp points, but it might just be the way the shadows move across his face. “That’s your story, but she was bought fair and square so now she stays with us.”

  I turn to Sam and give him a look like, Why aren’t you saying anything? And, What’s wrong with you? And, What a useless bit of help you are!

  His expression is flat. “Like I said, we’re just passing through. Come on, Ailis.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Sam leans in. “We don’t want to cause her trouble,” he says between his teeth.

  “Good thinkin’,” the lantern boy says, pulling on Nettie’s rope. “Take the brat up, Joey.” He sets his lantern down and lifts Nettie up as the older boy from above slowly pulls on her rope.

  “Check on Kristina for me,” Nettie says as she rises up into the air. She is like a rag doll being hauled out of the sitting hole of an outhouse. “And tell Miss Franny hello.”

  “I will,” I promise.

  “Take my advice,” the lantern boy says to us, “leave her alone. You don’t want the kind of trouble meddlin’ causes. I’ve seen it and it’s not pretty. If you really do care about the girl, you’ll forget you ever saw her.”

  By the time we get up onto the street with Quinn, I can’t stop shaking. Partly from coming up into the cold from the warm, vile sewer and partly because I realize Sam is right—trying to help Nettie will put her in unspeakable danger.

  “We have to be careful about this,” Sam says. “Sly, like a fox. What did that teacher of yours say about foxes?”

  I know he is trying to lighten my mood but I shake my head, still trembling. “Nothing.”

  Quinn takes off his coat and wraps it around my shoulders. “You’re freezing. Go change into your dress and we’ll talk to the police again first thing in the morning.”

  “The police are as dirty as that sewer we just stepped out of,” Sam says. “Chicago is notorious for corruption. The cops in this city don’t care about an orphan girl. Especially if ignoring her means one of their insiders makes more money.”

  “What can we do?” Quinn asks.

  “Watch,” Sam says. “Wait. Hope to find her alone and then try to convince her to leave.”

  “She wants out,” I say. “I could see it in her face.”

  “Maybe, but at what cost?” Sam puts his hand on my shoulder. “As long as she does what they want, she’ll get a bowl of broth and a place to sleep. We can rest easier knowing Nettie is alive and that she listens and obeys. Our job is to keep our distance, watch for their weakness, and not cause her any unnecessary problems.”

  I duck away to change into Ida’s dress and then follow Quinn and Sam back to the boardinghouse. At one point along the way, Quinn attempts small talk but eventually gives up and joins our silence.

  When we get to the corner of Miss Franny’s street, Sam says, “I think you’re safe to finish on from here.”

  “Where are you going?” Quinn asks, and I am surprised he can’t guess.

  “Well,” Sam says, rubbing a finger next to that crooked nose of his, “I thought I’d do a bit more inquiry about the rat extermination company over at the pub. You know, have a pint and chat a bit.” He looks down at his watch. “They are pouring drinks for another hour still.”

  “Oh,” Quinn says. The word tumbles out soft and low.

  When we get back to Miss Franny’s, everyone is in their rooms for the night. Quinn and I spread our blankets on the front room floor and he falls asleep right away. I sit next to him, looking at his sagging mouth and peaceful expression. What dreams happen behind those closed eyes, I wonder. How can he fall asleep so easily?

  I put on my coat and shoes, grab an extra blanket, and go onto the front porch, careful to open the door slowly so the hinges don’t creak and give me away. I sit in the rocker and look up at the moon. It is unadorned white—like it should be—and looking at it makes me remember the moon on the night of our Peshtigo fire. How it glowed a sickly red-orange color. And how the sky was so heavy with ash it made gray, splotchy patterns across that cinnamon moon.

  As much as I hate that memory, what I hate even more is the way the fire moon turned back to white the very next night. As if nothing had happened. As if all was as it should be again.

  I shiver from the cold and pull my knees up under the blanket, wrapping the corner ends around my ankles. I hum one of Mother’s songs and count money in my head, trying to figure out how much we have saved and how much more we need. I do whatever I can to ignore the sense of hopelessness that lines the bottom of my soul and makes me ache in the deepest part of my bones.

  Soon I hear Sam clomping up the front walkway, singing a parlor tune about a barmaid with red curls.

  When he sees me, he slaps his hand across his mouth and says, “Excuse me, dearest one.”

  Miss Franny must have heard him as well because she swings the door open and clicks her tongue. “Sam Abbott, whatever will I do with you?”

  “What a lovely belle you are,” Sam says, leaning forward and spitting as he speaks.

  “You’re drunk again.” She places his arm around her neck and pulls him inside. But not before she gives me a look like it’s all somehow my fault.

  I rub my face and pull the blanket around my shoulders. I am exhausted, so I go inside and curl up next to Quinn on the floor. Still, sleep doesn’t come. I lie there thinking of Nettie until morning light bleeds through the edges of the front room curtain and then I get up, knowing I need to do something more. Knowing it’s time to talk to Mr. Olsen again.

  17

  Once our chores are complete and Quinn is playing his fiddle in the bazaar, I go to Ida’s and ask if I can take the day off to visit Mr. Olsen. Quinn would be upset if he knew my plans to go wi
thout him but something in me needs to be alone. I want to walk the streets and feel anonymous and not have to explain where I am going or what I am thinking. I tell myself Chicago is safe when the sun is out and the streets are crowded.

  “Of course, Liebling,” Ida says. “I can go with you.”

  “You shouldn’t close the store because of me. It’s something I want to do alone.”

  She pushes her lips together and nods slowly. “Okay, I will let you do this thing you need to do. But you must tell me if I can help, yes?”

  I start for the door. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  I head out on Canal Street and through the ruined part of the city. I slow when I come upon the section where the man in the piano box had been. The box is still there in the middle of the sidewalk and he is slumped up against it, sleeping. People walk around him as if he doesn’t exist. As if they see grown men sleeping in big wooden piano boxes every day of their lives.

  I take the dime I brought for lunch from my pocket, ease up to where he is sleeping, and set it quietly by his side—knowing someone could possibly steal the money, but not wanting to wake him up.

  He snorts and I jump. But then he crosses his arms, snuggles deeper into his coat, and keeps sleeping.

  I walk on to North Avenue, turn left, and keep going until I am standing in front of those massive black gates. Like before, I ring the call bell.

  “Yes?” the butler says from the doorway at the other end of the walk.

  “It’s Ailis Doyle to see Mr. Olsen.”

  “Mr. Olsen is not in.”

  It feels odd hollering down the path, but the gate is locked and the butler isn’t budging from the front door. “Can I come back later?”

  “You may, but Mr. Olsen will still be out.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  Finally, the butler comes away from the door and out to where I am standing. “It is not my place to say, but I know the master has an interest where you and your brother are concerned.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mr. Olsen has left Chicago to work on matters regarding the railway line he is building. He will not return for another week.”

  “A week! I need to speak to him about something very important. I need his help.”

  The butler raises both hands. “I have no control in this matter. He is a busy man and often gone.”

  “Can you telegraph him somehow?”

  “I am sorry,” the butler says. “I will let Mr. Olsen know you inquired when he returns.”

  “Can you tell him we’ve learned what happened to Nettie? The orphan girl who was staying at his boardinghouse. She’s been forced into the rat trade.”

  He hesitates, clearly taken aback by the news. “I will relay the message as soon as possible. Now, good day.” He turns back up the walk and disappears behind the broad doors.

  Mr. Olsen is the only person I thought might be able to convince the police to investigate Absolute Exterminators. Without him at my side, I’m afraid no one will listen. I begin walking down North Avenue, back into Chicago’s rubble. I walk without thinking and without feeling. I am numb on the outside from December’s icy air and numb on the inside from the bleak and bitter truth surrounding me.

  I press on down Canal Street and stop on the corner of Monroe. In the afternoon light, I can see Sam was right; two men sit guard out front of the hotel, playing cards on an overturned box, and another leans up against the corner of the building.

  I can also see an outhouse behind the hotel. It stands fifteen or twenty feet from the back door.

  Unsupervised.

  I walk over to Madison Street and approach the hotel from behind to avoid the guards. A boy is coming out the rear door of the hotel as I sneak up.

  “Psst,” I whisper, hiding behind the outhouse.

  He rubs his eyes and yawns.

  “Psst,” I say again, only a little sharper and louder.

  That gets his attention. He starts to speak but I put my finger to my lips and then crook the other hand, asking him over to where I am crouching down.

  “Who are you?” he asks when he gets to the outhouse.

  “A friend of Nettie’s. Is she inside?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Can you get her for me?”

  His eyes flit to the hotel. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I ain’t gonna get beat on account of a snot-nosed girl.”

  I reach into my coat pocket and pull out a penny. “All you have to do is tell her to come outside.”

  His eyes are fixed on the penny. “She’s still sleeping.”

  “Wake her up and tell her to use the outhouse. That’s all I’m asking.” I push the penny out a bit farther.

  He snaps it up from my palm in a flash and then steps back, as if I will do something to him for taking it.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m a friend.”

  “No such thing,” he mutters as he tucks the penny into his pocket and flees into the hotel.

  I wait for what seems like forever before the door is pushed open and Nettie steps out. “Hello?” she says into the empty yard.

  I poke my head out from the back of the outhouse and smile but then wave my arms and point over to the side of the hotel where I know the thugs are, warning her to be quiet.

  She gets the picture and creeps over to where I am hiding. When she gets there, I notice her eyelids are red and bloated. “What happened to you?” I ask. Nettie shrugs and presses her fists to her eyes. I grab her hands and see they are caked with dirt—and that the crevices of filth are lined with white powder. “This is rat poison,” I say, trying to keep my voice down. “You’re getting it in your eyes.”

  “It’s rat medicine,” she says. “Why are you here?”

  “I want you to come back to Miss Franny’s with me. We miss you.”

  Nettie shakes her head, eyes wide as she can get them. “Can’t,” she whispers.

  “Yes, you can. Sneak away with me right now.”

  “It’s not safe. They’ll get you and Quinn and Kristina and even Miss Franny.”

  “They’re just trying to scare you. Come on, let’s go.” I tug on her arm but she pulls it back and sits down.

  “Look what I found.” She reaches into her pinafore pocket and pulls out a handful of trinkets. “Treasure,” she says, “buried under the streets.” She lines the items up on the ground and motions for me to sit down. “Look at this ribbon, isn’t it pretty?”

  It is filthy, tattered, and only about two inches long.

  “And I found this sparkly rock and this pink comb with only a few broken teeth and then I found this actual tooth.” She points to a decaying molar sitting next to the comb. “Isn’t that lucky? Finding a broken-tooth comb and then a tooth on the same day?”

  Nettie has always been naïve and ignoring trouble is how she copes with difficult things. Still, she seems different as I watch her point out these bits of trash in front of me. She is stroking the ribbon on the ground with her finger and I notice the edge of a dark blue bruise on her arm, just under her sleeve. I point to the rim of the bruise. “They’re hurting you.”

  She pulls her sleeve down and scoops up her treasures. “Thanks for visiting me. Please don’t come back.”

  “Nettie.”

  She shakes her head and runs into the hotel. I want to grab her or holler after her, but she’s already gone and I don’t want to bring the overseer-thug-guards around, which wouldn’t be good for anyone.

  * * *

  Quinn is sitting on the bed of a parked wagon in front of Miss Franny’s, his fiddle on his lap. I expect him to yell at me the moment he sees my face coming his way, but he waits until I get right in front of him and then says, “I was worried about you.”

  “Sorry,” I say. I was ready for a quarrel. I had figured out my side of the argument about how I am the oldest and how if I want to spend a day doing something by myself then I shouldn’t have to get his permission. How Nettie is more my resp
onsibility than anyone else’s and how I need to sort things out in my mind. I am not prepared for somber Quinn. For sad Quinn. “Let’s go inside,” I say.

  “We can’t.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I was late getting back to do my chores because I was out looking for you and Miss Franny got in a huff, saying we’ve been skipping and skimping on our work for too many days and she’s tired of us not doing anything and then she said I was just another lazy Irish Mick.”

  I can tell there is more to his story so I ask, “And what did you say back to her?”

  “I told her she was a wretched old witch and that she could chop her own wood once in a while.”

  A laugh jumps out of my mouth.

  Quinn goes on. “Then she said maybe a night on the cold streets will make us appreciate her hospitality. She probably didn’t mean it but I was so mad I left anyway. Now I just don’t want to deal with her.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I say.

  I climb up onto the wagon bed next to him.

  We sit side by side and let the last wisp of daylight sink down into the earth. I tell Quinn about Nettie and he suggests we bring a bucket of water for her to wash her hands and face. It is a good idea and I am grateful for the suggestion. “And food,” I add. “She looked hungry.”

  A light snow starts to fall, barely, but it keeps coming down, building a thin veil of wet across our heads and coats. “We can’t stay here all night,” Quinn says out of the quiet. “Maybe we could ask Ida if we could bunk with her.”

  “I don’t want to bother her so late. Besides, her apartment is so small. You’ve seen it, it’s just one little room. What do you think about going in to Miss Franny’s?”

  “I’m not ready to apologize,” he says. “Not after what she called me.”

  “I have an idea.” I lead him around the side of the boardinghouse to the chicken coop. “I know it’s clean because I just changed the straw.”

  “Miss Franny won’t like it,” Quinn says.

  “Who’s going to tell?”

  Quinn is considering the idea and says, “At least we’ll be out of this snow. And Kristina’s not there to peck at us. The other hens are a lot nicer than Kristina.”