by Tess Hilmo
“How many people are there?” Quinn asks, taking off in a sprint.
We round the corner and are stopped by throngs of people outside of the hotel.
“Look at it!” Ida exclaims. “All from your good idea to talk to the newspaper!”
I can hardly see the hotel for the crowd.
And the noise! Everyone is jabbing their fists into the air and chanting in unison, “Down with Absolute!”
Within seconds, the police arrive. There are at least two dozen officers in full uniforms with wooden batons and guns hanging from their belts. My heart soars at the sight of the crowd parting and the officers marching up to the hotel.
A hush falls as one officer steps forward and bangs on the door.
Silence.
He pulls out his club and slams it against the door. “Open in the name of the law!” He looks to his mates and then stands back, raises a foot, and kicks the door down.
The crowd goes wild, shoving forward and shouting things like, Free the children! And, Don’t let Mr. Blume escape! And, Catch the rat! Ida grabs my hand, I take Greta’s hand, and we try to stay close behind Sam and Quinn as the crowd pushes forward.
“Stay together!” Sam yells above the shouting.
It’s mayhem and I think I’m about to be crushed alive when, at once, everyone starts to back up, making room for the police officers who are shoving a row of men out the front of the hotel. As they are led to the police wagons, I notice an officer purposely shoves one of the thugs extra hard, causing him to fall down on the dirt road, then lifts him up by the collar and pushes him forward again.
“Gracious,” Ida says as the children slowly start coming out. They squint their eyes against the morning light and seem unsure of the freedom being offered up.
A few women—probably from the Ladies’ Aid Society—rush forward to help lead the children over to the side of the yard where two more police officers are pulling out their notebooks and asking questions.
“Too bad Net’s not in there,” Sam says.
It’s miserable to know she could have been freed today if Quinn and I hadn’t caused her to be moved to a different location.
“But surely this is not the end,” Ida says. “Now they will be able to search for other hideouts, yes?”
“Let’s hope so,” Quinn says, but regret has spoiled hope for me.
Sam guesses my thoughts and says, “What you guys did is something else. You helped a lot of kids today.”
Then he gives a quick pat to Quinn’s shoulder. “It looks like things are taken care of here. We’ll see you tonight?”
“Sure,” Quinn says.
Sam saunters down the road. I find a pile of charred bricks and sit down. “Now what?”
Greta joins me and wraps her arms around her knees.
“Look,” Ida says, and I notice a splendid carriage down the street, on the opposite side of the hotel. “I’ve seen that in the city before. I believe it belongs to Mr. Olsen. Perhaps he has returned.”
I stand and look. It is very fine.
And stepping out the door is someone painfully small and frail.
I put my hand on my heart and suck in my breath. “Nettie.”
22
Nettie nearly snaps in two for all the hugs we are giving her. Quinn even spins around in a circle when he hugs her, sending her bony legs out in a flutter.
“How’d you find her?” I ask Mr. Olsen.
“When I received your message and read this morning’s edition of the Journal, I knew it would be best to pay a visit to Mr. Blume.”
“What did he say?” Quinn asks.
“Naturally he denied any involvement, but I was eventually able to convince him to track the girl down at another building across town and sell her back to me.”
“You bought her?”
“I negotiated her freedom.”
“Is that legal?” I ask.
Mr. Olsen looks across the street to the Monroe. The police wagons have carted off the adults but the children are still being questioned. “I felt it important to circumvent the legal process and find the girl as soon as possible.”
I keep hold of Nettie’s hand, patting it gently. “Thank you,” I say to him. “I’m sure we can never repay you.”
Mr. Olsen looks down at me. “You are not without resources, Ailis Doyle.”
“What resources do I have?” I ask, confused.
“We shall speak of that later. Our charge at the moment is the child. Quick, all of you, into the carriage. Let us return to my home for a feast befitting this momentous occasion.”
Quinn leans in. “Does that mean lunch?”
“I think so,” I whisper back.
All six of us pile into Mr. Olsen’s carriage. Nettie sits on my lap. She is so light, I wouldn’t have felt her if it weren’t for the bones of her bottom poking into my legs. How little she must have eaten, I think, to lose so much weight in only twenty-four days. I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her in close, careful not to squeeze too hard. “I’m so glad you’re back.”
“Only for today, right?”
“No, Nettie,” I say. “Forever.”
“But what about the rats?”
“Who cares about the stupid rats?”
Ida touches my knee. “Now, child,” she says to Nettie. “Forgive Ailis. She doesn’t understand how important your work was.”
What is she talking about?
Ida keeps on. “But you must understand the work you were doing should be performed by adults. It is their worry, not yours. Their job, not a child’s.”
“Big people can’t fit into some of the tunnels,” she says. “They need me.”
“You are very important, it’s true,” Ida says in a soothing tone, easing her words out and maintaining a warm smile. “Still, the police commissioner has decided children should go to school and be with their families, so that is what we shall do.”
“I don’t have a family,” Nettie says.
“You have us,” I say.
Nettie leans back into me and points to Ida and Greta. “I don’t know who these people are.”
Ida gives a gentle laugh and introduces herself, along with Greta. “We are a hodgepodge of people, but we love you very much. Isn’t that what makes a family after all?”
Nettie is chewing on her bottom lip and rubbing her hand under her nose. “I guess so.”
“Then it is settled,” Ida says.
Nettie turns to Mr. Olsen. “Are you part of the family, too?”
I start to apologize, but Mr. Olsen raises his hand. “As much as I can be, yes.”
That makes Nettie smile so wide her cheeks force her puffy eyes closed. “Since you’re part of the family, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Can I keep my chicken, Kristina, at your house?”
Mr. Olsen laughs. “I will see to it myself.”
* * *
We start in Mr. Olsen’s kitchen, which is the size of seven or eight normal kitchens. He cuts an apple for Nettie and requests that his maid make slices of honeyed bread and glasses of warm milk for us all.
“To tide you over,” he says. “A proper meal will take time to prepare.”
Fresh honeyed bread and a tall glass of warm milk is more than any meal I am used to so I can’t begin to imagine what will come next.
A chestnut-skinned woman bustles into the kitchen with her arms full of towels and stops in her tracks. “Is this the girl?” She is looking at Nettie.
“It is,” Mr. Olsen says. “And we’re planning a feast to celebrate her freedom.”
The woman looks Nettie over and asks, “Is there time for a bath?”
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Olsen says. “She’s all yours, Carlene.”
The woman sets the towels on the counter and goes to Nettie, mumbling about how she needs a decent bath and someone to look at her cuts and bruises. “And we’ll get ointment for those eyes. I’ll send for Dr. Brown immediately.” She scoops Nettie int
o her arms and takes her out of the room.
“Carlene will use great care tending to the girl,” Mr. Olsen assures me.
It’s not that I don’t trust Carlene. I’m just not ready to have Nettie leave me, even if it is only to another part of the house.
Ida takes my hand. “She will be fine.” Her fingers are soft around mine.
“You are welcome to wait for her, and for our meal, in the library,” Mr. Olsen says. “If you will excuse me, there are a few items requiring my attention.”
“What about paying you back?” I ask, remembering what he said.
Mr. Olsen turns at the door. “Business always follows the meal. It’s the way of the world.” He disappears down the hallway.
Quinn doesn’t have to be asked twice to go to the library and we follow the maid’s directions down the hall, turning right at the golden elephant statue.
“Quite a library,” Ida says.
“Amazing,” Greta agrees.
Quinn runs his fingers up and down the spines of the books, like he is imagining what adventure each holds.
“Do you have a favorite?” Greta asks at his side.
I know Quinn wishes he were a better reader and am afraid for him to answer so I say, “He likes Irish authors and Irish fables.”
He shoots me a look and I clamp my lips together.
“I was needed in our cranberry bogs,” he says, and she smiles, understanding.
I sink down into a worn leather chair and tuck my knees under me like a cat curling into a cushion. I must have dozed off because I am startled awake by a bell and the butler standing at the library door announcing our meal.
We follow Mr. Olsen’s butler into the dining room. My wildest dreams couldn’t match what is laid before us on the table. A haunch of venison, a tureen of clam soup, baked potatoes in jackets, turnips with onion sauce, pickled cabbage, crabapple jelly with butter-flake rolls, and a leaf-shaped glass dish with sweet pickled grapes. But what catches Nettie’s attention is the embroidered linen cloth underneath it all.
“It’s so pretty,” she says, holding the corner up and showing us green leaves stitched into a circle pattern.
“You’re so pretty,” Ida says back.
Ida is right. While I slept, Nettie was transformed from a street urchin into something out of a picture book. Her skin is pink and clean, her hair is combed and parted, with a white tulle bow, and she is wearing a navy dress with a train stitched across the chest. Even her eyes look better.
“Luckily, the neighbor girl is almost this same size,” Carlene says, motioning to Nettie’s dress. “Also, Dr. Brown has prescribed this ointment for the girl’s eyes.” She hands a vial to Ida. “It should be administered morning and night.”
It makes sense for her to give the medicine to Ida because she is the adult in our group of visitors. But it makes me wonder where we will all go from here. Back to Miss Franny’s? In with Ida? Watching Nettie gawk and gaze around the house, I can guess she is imagining herself here with Mr. Olsen, but I know that won’t happen. When Nettie asked him if he’d be part of our family group, his answer was qualified. As much as I can be, he said. Which isn’t exactly the same as Move in with me tomorrow.
When Mr. Olsen comes into the room, we take our seats and begin our meal. It is difficult not to scoop everything onto my plate but I manage to show restraint as Miss Franny would say and take only a small portion of each item.
Mr. Olsen speaks of his discussion with the police department and how he is certain they will investigate other locations where Absolute Exterminators kept children.
“Where will the children go?” Quinn asks.
“An excellent question, my boy,” Mr. Olsen says. “I have spoken with Mayor Medill myself and he assures me they will find suitable accommodations for each child.”
“What about Charlie?” I ask, speaking through a mouthful of turnips.
“Apprehended,” Mr. Olsen says.
I look over to Nettie, whose fork is frozen in front of her mouth with a piece of venison dangling from the tines. She lowers it back to her plate and says, “Is Charlie in trouble?”
We all look to Ida, who seems to be the only one who knows how to talk to Nettie.
“No, child,” she says. “He has been given another job is all.”
We plaster on smiles and nod in agreement. It is probably best not to upset Nettie any further.
I go back to my turnips and pickled grapes, which are tangy and sweet at the same time. Mr. Olsen changes the subject and speaks of his travels, asking Ida all about Germany. Quinn and Greta make eyes at each other and I almost remind him he is only eleven years old and she about the same age, but decide to let it go. Father and Mother first met at a town dance when they were only eleven.
I suppose love has to start somewhere.
Nettie eats a small portion of the food on her plate and then slumps down in her chair and falls asleep. Carlene comes and carries her off to a soft spot.
“Ailis,” Mr. Olsen says once we are at the end of our meal. “May I speak with you in my office?”
I fold the cloth napkin from my lap, place it next to my plate, and say, “Of course.”
He turns to Ida. “I would appreciate her having an adult confidante for this discussion. Would you join us?”
Ida agrees and follows us into Mr. Olsen’s office, which is dark mahogany, emerald rugs, and yellow glass lamplight in every direction. I think of the contrast of this space to the worn pine table Father did his paperwork on.
“Please sit,” Mr. Olsen says, directing us to two chairs across from where he is taking a seat behind his desk. “Ailis,” he begins, “as you know, I thought highly of your father. He was a liaison between the railroad and the people of Peshtigo—a friend in business and, in my mind, a friend in life.”
“Father spoke highly of you as well,” I say.
“What you may not know is, I have long wanted to build a line from Chicago up through Wisconsin. Your farm in Peshtigo sits at the base of where we need to build. The reason I approached your father was because the railroad wanted to buy his land—to allow access, you see.”
“I remember Father saying something about that, but he would never sell our land.”
“At the time, no, he wouldn’t. And I understood his position, even if that meant we were unable to move forward with the building of that rail line. But now circumstances have changed.”
“You’ve seen it yourself,” I say. “The town is gone.”
“Make no mistake, Peshtigo will rebuild,” he says. “Perhaps not as quickly as Chicago, but there are enough people who will stay. Having the railroad go through will assure they can rebuild faster.”
“You still want to buy our farm?”
“As a previous president of the Union Pacific Railroad, I guarantee you a fair price.”
I lean back in my chair, thinking.
Mr. Olsen takes my silence as uncertainty and says, “Selling your land will help dozens, maybe even hundreds of others rebuild. And it goes without saying you and your brother will have free access to that rail line. Anytime you wish to visit Peshtigo and your family’s grave site, you are guaranteed a first-class seat.”
“First class,” Ida breathes.
“What will become of us?” I ask, knowing Mr. Olsen isn’t the one who can answer that question.
He opens a drawer in his desk, pulls out a booklet, and scribbles something down. “I intended to have this discussion shortly after the fires, but urgent business took my attention for a time. I am sincerely sorry it has taken me this long. Here is my offer.” He hands me a promissory note. “The Union Pacific’s new line would ideally run right through your property. We could build around it, of course, but your farm has always been a key component of our plan.”
Ida leans in and whispers, “Properly used, that will set you up for a lifetime.”
I press the note down into my lap and hear Ida whispering to me on my left side, but I also feel something else. So
meone on my right side saying, Now is the time. Don’t be afraid to tell them what you need, Ailis.
I turn to my right but there is no one there. Still, the words remain.
“I want to move into a larger apartment with you, Ida. Quinn and Nettie, too.” I imagine the look on Nettie’s face when she sees Ida’s new kitten. She will be smitten.
A grin spreads out on Ida’s face. “There is a three-room apartment vacant just two floors above mine. I am tired of my dingy old place anyway. You will be doing me a favor taking me away from that miserable box.”
“I want to be your apprentice and I want Nettie to get her education.” I look back at the promissory note. “Will this be enough for her college?”
“I will ensure the girl’s college. It would be my pleasure,” Mr. Olsen offers. “But I insist you finish school yourself, Ailis. It is what your father would have wanted.”
I close my eyes and imagine Father standing right next to my chair with his strong, weathered hand on my shoulder, saying those words again: Don’t be afraid to tell them. I reach into my skirt pocket and pull out the card from the music school. It is warped from being carried around and from being in the wet gutter, but you can still read the words:
* * *
GRAND SCHOOL OF MUSIC
Chicago, Illinois
Robert Donlope, Director
* * *
“Okay,” I say. “If I can apprentice under Ida after my classes.” Then I add, “And I want Quinn to go to this school. A three-room apartment, college for Nettie someday, and this music school for Quinn. If I can have those things, I will sell you Father’s land.”
“Your land,” Mr. Olsen says.
I touch the promissory note. “And Quinn’s. I should ask him about this.”
Mr. Olsen agrees. “Of course. I’ll wait here.”
I walk down the hallway into the library where Greta is sitting next to Quinn on the couch, reading aloud from a book.
“Can I have a moment?” I ask.
She closes the book and steps out.
“Is everything okay?” Quinn asks.