by BJ Hoff
“No,” Nicholas said, shaking his head. “And I don’t expect it ever will.”
Inside the small, dingy apartment, which in reality was nothing more than two cramped rooms—a kitchen of sorts and a bedroom—things were pretty much as Nicholas had expected. A neighbor had taken the baby, while another woman—an Italian matron named Mrs. Silone—sat by the patient’s bed.
At the sight of the doctor and the pastor, Mrs. Silone rose and, giving a resigned shake of her head as she passed between them, left the apartment.
Elizabeth Ward, awake, attempted a smile as the two men approached the bed.
The young woman’s darkly shadowed eyes seemed to brighten for an instant as Nicholas introduced Jess Dalton. “It’s…good of you to come, Pastor.” Her voice was so weak she could scarcely be heard. “I’m afraid…I haven’t been able to attend services for a long time,” she said, moistening her fever-cracked lips.
Unexpectedly, her eyes widened, and she lifted a frail hand to Nicholas. “Doctor…has there been…any word?”
His throat tightening, Nicholas took her hand. “Not yet, I’m afraid.” At her stricken look, he quickly added, “Why don’t I write again? Perhaps my first letter didn’t reach your father.”
Closing her eyes, she said simply, “There’s no more time.”
A wave of anguish washed over Nicholas, and for a moment he couldn’t answer.
Elizabeth Ward drew a deep, ragged breath, which triggered a fit of coughing. Quickly, Nicholas moved to slip a hand behind the pillows to hold her steady. He was almost surprised at the blood that came. The poor girl was so emaciated and pale she appeared bloodless. But when the spasm ended, the small white rag in her hand that served as a handkerchief was stained with crimson, as was the bodice of her white nightgown.
Gently releasing her, Nicholas smoothed the thinning hair away from her face. Dear girl, I would give up my entire practice if I could somehow make this night easier for you.…
Her eyes closed, Elizabeth Ward murmured a word. “Amanda.”
“Amanda is just fine,” Nicholas assured her, again taking her hand. “Mrs. Modine is looking after her.”
Her eyes opened and she looked at Nicholas. “But she can’t stay there, Doctor! The Modines have four children of their own. They can’t possibly—” Her voice broke and she gasped, fighting for breath. “Please…I want to see her…I want to see my baby.…”
Nicholas quickly checked her pulse, which was perilously weak. Giving her hand a gentle squeeze, he turned to Jess. “If you’ll stay, I’ll go across the hall and get the baby.”
Little Amanda Ward, fifteen months old and the image of her mother, was a friendly, happy little girl. She was all blue eyes and dimples and bouncing blond curls.
Even now, in spite of his heavy heart, Nicholas found himself responding with a smile to the child in his arms.
He stopped just inside the bedroom door, waiting. Jess Dalton stood beside the bed, head bowed, holding both of Elizabeth Ward’s hands in his as he prayed. Nicholas watched for a moment, then closed his eyes and said a prayer of his own, both for the dying mother and for her child, the baby girl in his arms.
Finally, the pastor straightened, standing aside for Nicholas to bring the baby to her mother. Elizabeth Ward no longer had the strength to open her arms to her little girl, so Nicholas gently laid Amanda against her shoulder.
For a long time, the frail young woman lay gazing at her child, while the baby contentedly studied her mother’s face. But when another spasm of coughing seized her, Nicholas quickly lifted Amanda away, handing her to Jess Dalton.
Supporting Elizabeth Ward against his shoulder, he waited until the seizure passed, then eased her gently back against the pillows.
“I have a new bottle of cough syrup for you in my case,” he said, straightening. “Let me get it.”
But giving a weak shake of her head, she told him, “No. No…it’s all right. It doesn’t really…help any longer.”
She was watching Jess Dalton with Amanda. “Do you have children, Pastor?”
He smiled at her. “A son,” he replied. “Casey-Fitz is almost eleven.”
Elizabeth Ward managed a weak smile through cracked lips. “Casey-Fitz. You’re Irish, Pastor?”
“My wife is—and I suppose you might say I am, as well, since my roots were planted in Irish soil a few generations ago.”
“I…would have liked a son,” she murmured vaguely. “A brother…for Amanda.”
Her features suddenly went taut. Squeezing her eyes shut, she moaned and clutched her chest, struggling to breathe. The death rattles in her throat came more insistently now.
Again Nicholas raised her head from the pillows. Fighting for breath, she stared up at Jess Dalton and her child. “Please…” she choked out. “You promised…you won’t let her go to an orphanage.…”
Without warning, she gave a harsh, labored breath, then Nicholas felt her sag in his arms.
It had been a long time since Nicholas had wept over a patient. But as he held Elizabeth Ward’s fragile, lifeless body in his arms, he could not stop the tears from spilling over.
Dear God, it should be the girl’s father weeping over her, not a doctor she’s known for only a few months! What kind of man lets his only daughter die alone, a continent away, in the arms of a stranger? What kind of man?
He glanced up to see Jess Dalton—his eyes also misted—gazing down at the baby girl in his arms.
“If only she could have had the peace of knowing her child would be taken care of,” Nicholas said, his voice heavy. Carefully, he released Elizabeth Ward’s body, wiping away the blood from the corner of her mouth, then closing her eyes. “If only she could have had that much hope before she died.”
“Perhaps she did,” Jess Dalton said quietly.
Nicholas looked at him. The big pastor’s eyes were still fixed on the child, who was studying him with grave intensity.
“I promised her I would take the child home,” he explained. “I gave her my word that my wife and I would take care of Amanda.”
Hiking the little girl higher against his massive chest, the pastor added, “At least until we can find a permanent home for her.”
Nicholas nodded, vastly relieved—but not really surprised—to learn that Elizabeth Ward had been given, after all, a faint glimmer of hope before she died.
Nearly two hours later, Jess Dalton fumbled for his house key with his free hand, while balancing little Amanda and the basket that held her clothing on his other arm.
Before he could let himself in, the door flew open to reveal a slightly wild-eyed Kerry. Her red hair blazed like a cloud of fire about her face. She was in her dressing gown.
“Jess! Oh—thanks be! I’ve been so worried! You said you wouldn’t be long! Where have—oh—”
She gaped as he stepped inside with the baby.
“Whatever—”
The child stirred against his shoulder, and Jess reached to free her face from the blanket. Two enormous blue eyes peered out at him, then at Kerry, who stood, a hand at her throat, her stunned gaze going from the baby to Jess.
“Jess?”
Knowing her well enough to predict her next move, he waited, smiling.
“Why…why, whatever do we have here?” Even as she asked, she was opening her arms to take the child. “Oh…isn’t she lovely!”
Releasing the baby to his wife, Jess shrugged out of his greatcoat and tossed it over the coat-tree. “Kerry, meet Amanda.”
He had already lost her. Kerry was tugging at the strings of the baby’s bonnet, clucking her tongue as the blond curls fell free. “Oh! Such hair! Would you look at it? Angel hair, that’s what it is! Oh, aren’t you the darling girl, though!”
Jess watched as the baby returned Kerry’s smile and put up one chubby hand to touch her face. “Amanda has lost her mother,” he said softly. “She’s in need of a place to stay just now. I thought perhaps we could take care of her…just for a while.”
Finally, Kerry looked at him, touching her cheek to the baby’s. “Oh, Jess,” she said, her green eyes shining, “of course, she can stay with us! Haven’t I prayed for a little girl?”
“Now, Kerry, it will only be for a short time,” Jess cautioned, starting after her as she took off down the hallway toward the kitchen. “It’s only temporary, you understand. Just until we can make other arrangements.”
She hadn’t heard him, he was sure of it. With the basket of baby clothing dangling clumsily from his hand, he followed them to the kitchen, where Kerry was already introducing a wide-eyed Amanda to Brian Boru, the cat, and a startled Molly Mackenzie, their housekeeper.
35
Between Freedom and Fear
The moaning wind! went wandering round
The weeping prison-wall:
Till like a wheel of turning steel
We felt the minutes crawl
OSCAR WILDE (1854-1900)
Quinn had known since Monday she was going to leave the Women’s Shelter, but not until Friday morning did she decide that this would be the day.
She had spent the intervening days carefully rehearsing her plan, memorizing Ethelda Crane’s schedule—and trying, in vain, to convince her friend, Ivy, to join her.
She thought of her plan as an escape, for the Chatham Charity Women’s Shelter was surely a prison in every way, except that the inmates’ only “crime” was the disgrace of being alone, helpless—and usually Irish—in the New World.
Escape had become Quinn’s obsession.
Every previous attempt to free herself from the Shelter’s clutches had been foiled by Ethelda Crane. The sly supervisor employed all manner of devices to maintain her hold on the Shelter’s residents.
The fact was, no resident at the Shelter ever got more than a peek at her own wages. The wages of the women and girls at the Shelter—including those who worked outside, in the factories—were collected weekly for such expenses as “board,” or “medical bills,” or “child support.”
Child support applied to those residents who had infants or small children placed under the care of various members of the “church” to which Miss Crane—and the Shelter’s board of directors—belonged. Care was provided at an institution on the lower East Side, and Shelter residents were required to pay exorbitant expenses for this “service.”
In addition, the wily Miss Crane used the threat of “The Law” like a weapon to keep the girls in line. Failure to pay one’s debts would result in a confrontation with The Law. Rebellious behavior or disciplinary problems would be dealt with by The Law. All sorts of alleged offenses—which Quinn had finally come to recognize as contrived, for the most part, for Ethelda Crane’s personal use—were subject to investigation by The Law. Since most of the residents at the Shelter were either foreign immigrants or uneducated country girls with an innate fear and distrust of law enforcement in general, it was all too easy to hold them captive with a simple threat.
Quinn herself had fallen victim to this particular gambit because she knew she could not afford scrutiny of any sort by the police. But after months of being the victim of Ethelda Crane’s chicanery, she had reached the point of desperation. She was convinced she must take her chances if she were going to survive at all. The threat of The Law seemed no more forbidding than the possibility of living out the rest of her days as an imprisoned drudge at the Chatham Charity Women’s Shelter.
She had her strategy down pat, had gone over it in her mind a hundred times or more. Every Friday evening, after putting Mrs. Cunnington, the cook, in charge of things, Ethelda Crane would leave the building to “go calling.” Sometimes she went alone; sometimes she was accompanied by one of the do-gooders from uptown—although never the sweet-faced Mrs. Deshler nor Mrs. Burke, the lady who had spoken so kindly to Quinn the day of the mission society tour.
Quinn had noticed that when Miss Crane went calling, she never failed to bring back at least one new resident for the Shelter. She had come to think of the Friday night expeditions as fishing trips. Apparently, the enterprising Ethelda Crane made it her business to nose about such places as the Bowery and the docks, where she might find women or young girls on their own keeping—girls in trouble, lost, down on their luck, or just plain simpleminded. By giving the impression that she was saving them from their misfortune, she found it easy to haul the unsuspecting poor souls into her net—just as she had Quinn.
Well, this fish was getting away, Quinn thought grimly as she turned her last collar for the day. This evening, once Miss Crane had left the Shelter, she would wait until that great lump, Mrs. Cunnington, was having her nip in the kitchen pantry. Then she would sneak down the fire escape at the rear of the building.
And that would be the last this place would be seeing of Quinn O’Shea.
The only real beetle in the broth was where she would go. She didn’t feel she had much choice. The only place she could think of was the Five Points, where a number of those just off the boat seemed to head.
Quinn had an idea that Bobby Dempsey might have followed some of his cronies there after all, especially if he hadn’t managed to find a job on the docks. She hoped to locate Bobby as soon as possible, mostly to make sure he was all right. Every time a thought of the man crossed her mind, she felt troubled. Of course, his not showing up to meet her as they’d planned didn’t necessarily mean something had happened to him. He might have found a job on the docks and started in to work right off. Nevertheless, after all he had done to help her, the least she could do was look him up.
She had hoped the policeman—Sergeant Price—might have made the effort to find Bobby, after the way she’d practically begged him. But no doubt he’d forgotten all about her the minute he dumped her off on Ethelda Crane. And hadn’t she been foolish entirely, to think a policeman might have a care for such as her?
Well, she didn’t need the thickheaded sergeant’s help, now did she? She would find Bobby herself. Without her, Bobby would have followed his other pals to the Five Points, she was certain. As soon as she got there, she would find them all, no doubt. There was no denying that a familiar face or two would be a welcome sight in this enormous strange city—even the rough, mean faces of Roche and Boyle and their bunch.
After listening to some of the women who worked in the factories, Quinn had at least a vague idea as to how to get to Five Points. Some of the stories they told about the place made her none too anxious to go there after dark—but she didn’t see as how she could afford to be too choosy. At least there she might have a chance of finding Bobby or someone else she knew from the ship. And anything, she reminded herself, would be better than staying here.
Her only regret about leaving the Shelter was Ivy’s refusal to come with her. Quinn hated the idea of going without her friend—her only friend, except for Bobby. Ivy had a childlike innocence about her that sometimes made Quinn fear for the girl. She was too trusting entirely, too easily duped to be anything but a danger to herself.
But it was the reason Ivy refused to leave that troubled Quinn most. Over recent weeks, despite her initial aversion, the girl had taken up with the church members who, in addition to Miss Crane, administered the Shelter: Brother Will and his “flock”—in Quinn’s mind, a herd of mindless sheep milling about after an equally mindless shepherd.
During one of the services they sometimes held at the Shelter—services the residents were required to attend—Ivy had asked Brother Will a question about something in the lesson. The preacher had gone to what seemed extraordinary lengths to answer Ivy’s question, even suggesting some additional reading and providing her with a number of tracts that he claimed to have written.
This had been the start of Ivy’s involvement with the “flock.” She began to spend more and more of her free time reading their literature—“doctrines,” they called it. When she wasn’t reading, she was attending meetings with Ethelda Crane and some of the other residents who claimed to have been converted to the faith.
When Quinn had atte
mpted to question her about the group’s beliefs, Ivy gushed randomly, displaying no real grasp of their doctrines, but rather an excessive—and unwarranted—regard for the leader, Brother Will.
It didn’t take Quinn long to realize that she wasn’t going to change Ivy’s mind about the church or Brother Will. Every attempt she made was met with an indulgent, somewhat vacant smile, along with a vague reference to Quinn’s being a “lapsed Catholic,” and therefore unable to comprehend the Truth. When Quinn refused to read the doctrines and sneered at the suggestion she attend some of the meetings with the others, Ivy would assume a wounded look and say, “I’ll pray for you, Quinn.”
Quinn was beginning to wish she had never helped the girl with her reading. Perhaps Ivy would have been better off if she had never been able to understand their drivel in the first place.
Once, when Ivy was gone, Quinn had stolen a look at some of the pamphlets on her bunk and couldn’t believe her eyes at what these people were peddling. “Mortification of the flesh,” which apparently included fasting and other forms of self-denial, even something called “self-scourging,” or “disciplining one’s body into submission.”
Did this blather account for Ethelda Crane’s looking as if she’d been baptized in vinegar, then? Rubbish, the lot of it!
There also seemed to be a great deal of discussion on such themes as “thought purification” and “subduing the will,” the “common good,” and “devotion to duty.” But the one that really set Quinn’s teeth to grinding was the subject of “absolute obedience”—obedience to their divinely appointed spiritual guide, who in this case, of course, happened to be Brother Will.
Something about the man made Quinn suspect that he was about as spiritual as a piece of stale soda bread. In fact, she thought he might be a bit crackers. Daft. He had a way of rubbing his hands together when he prayed that never failed to make Quinn think of the times she had watched her granddad kill a chicken for the pot, back in the days when there were still chickens for the killing. He also, she had noticed, had an eye for the ladies—a distinctly goatish eye, and keen for the young girls, especially Ivy, who, to Quinn’s exasperation, seemed altogether unaware of the man’s peculiarities and contradictions.