by Ann Parker
Turning, she saw Mrs. Stannert sitting at the piano, her head bent forward, intent, her fingers prancing over the white-and-black keyboard. The music that poured forth beneath Mrs. Stannert’s touch was unlike anything Tony had heard before. It was magic. Real magic.
Unable to resist, Tony moved closer, away from the fire. The music flowed from note to note, low on the left, high on the right, as if the two hands were talking to each other in a language all their own. From slow, sad, and dark, to lighter and faster, then sad again, then fast again, but different from before, then spiraling down, down. Mrs. Stannert’s hands slowed. The music slowed as well, sounding of mourning, loneliness, and loss before falling into silence.
Tony said, “What’s that?”
Mrs. Stannert started, as if she’d been in a trance.
“It’s so,” Tony couldn’t think of a word, “happy, sad, lonely, and…everything.”
The missus glanced at Tony with a small smile that seemed close to sadness itself, then said, “It’s a short piece written by Ludwig van Beethoven, one of the greatest composers who ever lived. It’s the Bagatelle No. 25 in A Minor, sometimes called Für Elise. As with most music, what it tells you has a great deal to do with what is inside of you at the time you hear it.” Mrs. Stannert looked down at the keyboard, and said, “Sehnsucht would sum it up for me.” She ran a light fingertip over the ivory keys and said, “He even had it tuned.”
Tony squinched up her nose. “Sin…what?”
Mrs. Stannert rose and guided Tony back to the fireplace. “Sehnsucht. It’s a German word meaning, well, a lot of things. Yearning. Life’s longings. Aspiring after what is impossible, or nearly so. Sometimes it means ‘love lost or unattainable,’ a search for happiness,” her words slowed, “in a life where happiness is hard to find. It is a word used for a complicated emotion that is hard to explain. The Germans are experts at coming up with such words. Schadenfreude, sehnsucht. When I was playing the bagatelle, I thought of that word and all it means to me. Particularly now.”
Love lost. Tony looked down at the carpet. “Made me think of maman,” she said.
Mrs. Stannert’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “Yes,” she said. “Sehnsucht, Antonia. I believe you know the feeling, whether or not you know the word.”
The front door opened, and leather soles on wood echoed in the entry. Mr. Stannert appeared at the parlor doorway, a carpetbag under one arm and a large, brown-paper-wrapped bundle under the other. “I went you one better on the ‘Miss Carothers’ niece needs clothes for the weather’ story, Mrs. Stannert, and told Evan’s shopgirl that the train lost the girl’s luggage.” He walked in and placed the carpetbag and parcel on the loveseat. Tony noticed him glance at the piano and then at Mrs. Stannert. “So did you christen her properly?”
“A little Beethoven,” said Mrs. Stannert. She went back to the piano and closed the keyboard cover with a decided click. “I won’t ask how you managed to accomplish all this,” she indicated the furnished room, the house, “in such a short time and without my suspecting a thing.” Her hand rested on the keyboard cover. “It’s a beautiful parlor grand, Mr. Stannert, with a wonderful sound. And a beautiful house.”
He beamed. For a minute, Tony thought Mrs. Stannert might run into his arms and there would be some embarrassing hugging and canoodling. Instead, the missus leaned against the piano and gave him a look, like the look folks used to give maman when she gave them a reading they didn’t quite believe. Like they suspected it was all made up, not real, and were wondering what the angle was. But all Mrs. Stannert said was “And thank you for getting the ensemble for Tony.”
At that, she and Tony both looked at the brown parcel. “Let’s take things out and set them on the divan,” said Mrs. Stannert. “Make sure you have everything you need.”
“I’m changing now?” Tony wasn’t sure she liked that idea.
“I want to introduce you to your ‘aunt.’” said the missus.
“I have to start my new job at five,” said Tony. “And I need t’ get something to eat.” She didn’t want to say that she hadn’t eaten all day, but her empty stomach wasn’t going to let her forget that she’d missed breaking fast with the other newsies in the morning and it was now past noon.
“Ah-ha!” Mr. Stannert pulled another, smaller parcel from the carpetbag’s interior. “I stopped by the saloon on my way back and let drop to Bridgette that Miss Carothers has a niece in town.” He turned to Tony. “Before long, everyone will know who you are and you’ll be safe in your disguise. By the way, your ‘new’ name is Annabelle Carothers. Close enough to Antonia that it’ll be easy to remember.” He moved toward one of the small tables and began unwrapping the smaller package. “Mrs. O’Malley gave me this, figurin’ y’all might be hungry after your long train ride to Leadville.”
The scent of still-warm bread and cheese wafted to her, mixed with something meaty. Tony’s mouth watered in anticipation.
“Mrs. O’Malley is still chopping away at that cheese wheel,” Mr. Stannert continued. “She also added ham to this batch of biscuits. An all-in-one meal.” He stepped back so Tony could help herself.
Mrs. Stannert finally moved away from the piano. She headed out of the parlor, saying, “You’ve been busy, Mr. Stannert. Thank you for your foresight and finesse. Is there a kettle in the kitchen to heat water for tea?”
“Darlin’, the house has all the comforts of home,” said her husband.
She swept out of the room, heading toward the back.
Mr. Stannert watched her go, then turned to Tony. “Mrs. Stannert can be hard-headed and stubborn, but there’s no denyin’ she cuts a fine figure of a woman. And smart as a whip. Can’t pull the wool over her eyes, Miss Annabelle, so don’t you even try.” He winked at her.
She didn’t know quite what to say to that, but her mouth was full of a half-biscuit’s worth of warm bread, melted cheese, and salty ham, so she didn’t try. It was starting to get warm in the room, what with the fireplace and the parlor stove, so she shed the jacket. The sleeves got all tangled in the process, and the coat went inside out and sideways. Maman’s knife and cards spilled onto the rug.
Mr. Stannert’s eyebrows popped up just as the missus returned with a small cast iron kettle and a tray of tea things. She paused at the doorway, eyed the items on the rug, then went on to the parlor stove with kettle and the tray, her long skirts making a soft swishing sound on the rug. “We’ll see if there’s time to warm the water for the tea I found in the pantry.” She set the kettle on the stove. “And what are those on the floor?”
Tony stuffed the other half biscuit in her mouth and picked up the knife and tin, setting the tin down on the chair behind her.
Mr. Stannert looked with interest at the weapon in her hand. “Looks like you had backup to the pistol. A wise move.”
Tony swallowed with difficulty. The bread stuck in her throat, and it took some coughing before she could say, “It was Maman’s. I couldn’t find my gun when I went back, so I took her knife.”
“A folding knife?” Mr. Stannert smoothed his mustache, looking interested.
Tony demonstrated how to ratchet the blade out of the prettily engraved handle, the quick, little sounds the steel made as it emerged from its hiding place sounding loud in the parlor. She found the tiny clickety-click-tickety noise comforting. It made the innocuous object sound dangerous, like a small animal that without warning displays sharp claws and teeth.
She’d been working on her speed in getting the blade out and locked, so she felt a small twinge of pride when Mr. Stannert whistled and said, “Looks like you’re pretty fast on the draw too. It locks?”
Tony nodded. “Maman calls…called it a caracas. That’s the sound it makes when you open it. She also called it a salvavirgo.” Tony stumbled over the pronunciation.
The Stannerts looked at each other. “Spanish, or Italian?” Mrs. Stannert asked.
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br /> Mr. Stannert shrugged. “Sounds like to me.”
“But Maman is French for mother,” said the missus. She looked at Tony. “Where was your mother from?”
Tony shrugged. The whole “where are you and your kin from?” question always made her uncomfortable, because she had no real answer. Maman would just say, “We came from over the sea. If people ask, just say the town we left behind, that is where we came from. And wherever the two of us are, that is our home.” None of it really answered the question as to where Maman was born, or if she had any family, or even who Tony’s father was, but it was all the information she had.
Mrs. Stannert, perhaps sensing Tony’s discomfort, turned to the chair and picked up the tin. “And what is this, may I ask?”
“Maman’s cards,” said Tony. Then, because the Stannerts were looking at her expectantly and she wasn’t sure what else to do, she opened the tin and pulled out the cards. She fanned them, face up, for the Stannerts to see.
“Looks like a regular deck of cards,” said Mr. Stannert.
“Not quite,” said Mrs. Stannert. “It’s not complete.”
The mister held out his hand. “May I?”
Tony hesitated, then gave him the deck. It felt strange give them over, but after all, they were her cards now. She told herself it didn’t make any difference who touched them. She wasn’t going to tell any fortunes or “read” them. They were a part of Maman. Having them made her feel as if Maman was with her, close by.
Mr. Stannert fanned them out into a near circle, looked at the fronts and the backs. “Is this a piquet deck?” He pronounced it just like Maman: PEA-kay Tony nodded. He handed them back to Tony and looked at his wife. “French again. I’m putting my money on France.”
Mrs. Stannert frowned. “I heard Drina speak. I did not catch much in the way of French intonation. But then, does it matter? Everyone in Leadville is from somewhere else.” She looked at Tony. “So, do you know how to use them, these cards?”
Tony shrugged. “She taught me a little. The face cards, mostly.” They were at one end of the fan. She ran her gaze over the familiar illustrations and then up at Mr. Stannert. “It’s not really fortunetelling. You start with what a person looks like, the color of their eyes and hair, and go from there.” She put the cards away. Mrs. Stannert pulled the steaming kettle off the stovetop, prepared a cup of tea, and handed it to her.
“I’ll be blunt,” said the missus. “I don’t believe in fortunetelling. To me, it’s all folderol and a confidence game, and I’m well acquainted with confidence games. I don’t mean to impugn your mother’s memory or her occupation, but I think it’s best I let you know where I stand.” Her voice was brisk, but not mean.
Relieved, Tony said, “I don’t believe it either, all the ‘seeing’ stuff she always talked about. But I know she believed it, in her powers. Still, it felt sometimes like she was lying, just making things up to tell people.”
Mrs. Stannert handed a cup to the mister and said, “Please leave the room so Tony can dress.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “You’re the boss.” He winked at Tony and left, shutting the door behind him.
The missus pulled the string off the packet, saying, “A little fabrication, telling people what they want to hear or maybe what they are afraid of hearing, can be useful. When running a confidence game, being able to discern a mark’s deepest fears and desires can be a powerful tool. Time for a bit of a confidence game now, on your part. Put on these clothes and…Presto! Change! We’ll show people what they expect to see, and they won’t look any deeper for the truth.”
***
On the one hand, Tony loved how warm the new clothes were. The soft undergarments, the woolen flannels, the incredibly thick, luxurious coat that came down to her ankles, the shoes that almost fit. “Better a bit too big than a bit too small,” Mrs. Stannert had said, stuffing a little of the packing paper into the toes.
On the other hand, Tony hated the petticoats, which felt like they twisted around her limbs along with the long skirt, and she especially hated the corset, which Mrs. Stannert insisted she put on. “A girl your age would have started wearing stays several years ago, so don’t whine about it now. How old are you?”
“Twelve?” said Tony, a little uncertainly. “At least, that’s what Maman told me.”
“Twelve. Ah. You would be young for this but have you started your courses yet?” From the way she asked it, Tony had a feeling that this question had something to do with female things, but she had no idea what.
“My what?”
The frown lines between Mrs. Stannert’s eyebrows deepened. “Did your mother ever talk to you about a woman’s monthly flow?”
Tony suddenly realized what Mrs. Stannert was talking about. “Oh, ugh! The curse?” She clapped hands to her ears. “No! I don’t do that!”
“Well, eventually, you will,” said Mrs. Stannert. “Most likely years from now. But I must tell you—now take your hands down and listen, because it would be a disservice on my part if I didn’t warn you—the best thing to keep in mind when it happens is don’t panic. You’re not dying, even though it can be uncomfortable and messy. Just find some rags to use for padding under your clothes. I’m telling you this now, because in your guise as a boy, it would be most unfortunate if you started to bleed.” She said the word forcefully and bluntly, as if to push past the unfortunate need to have the discussion at all. “Especially in the company of others. So, there you go.”
To Tony’s relief, that ended the conversation. Mrs. Stannert walked to the parlor door, saying, “Drink your tea, if you want it, and put on your bonnet and gloves. We must leave soon to meet Miss Carothers.”
Tony gulped down her sweet, lukewarm tea, which had been cooling while she wrestled with her new clothes. She set the cup down and picked up her knife and cards. “What do I do with my things? I don’t have any pockets.”
“Use the reticule on the table,” said the missus, pulling open the door and calling out, “Mr. Stannert! Come see the miracle thou hast wrought.”
Tony put knife and cards into the small embroidered bag and pulled the bonnet on over her head. The brim, generously ruffled, hung low over her eyes, making it hard to see. Mr. Stannert came in and made approving noises. Mrs. Stannert handed Tony the wool gloves, stuffed Tony’s “men’s wear” and worn shoes into the waiting carpetbag, and snapped the latch shut.
“I’ll need to change before I go to my job,” said Tony.
“What job?” Mr. Stannert asked.
“I’ll explain later,” Mrs. Stannert said. She turned to Tony. “Changing is a problem. I’d give you the key to this house, but there are too many eyes around. This neighborhood is full of busybodies and looky-loos who like to gossip. If they see a girl go in and a boy come out it would not bode well for you.” She tapped her foot. “Probably the best place to effect your transformation would be at Miss Carothers’ studio. You could stay there for a bit, then change and leave by the back door. Or even the front door. Chestnut is a busy street, no one will take notice.” Mrs. Stannert looked at Tony, all worried again. “You’ll need a place to spend the night.”
“No! I got a place,” Tony assured her, thinking of the newsies’ shed.
“Under the boardwalks?” Mr. Stannert asked. “That’s not the best place to retire, if so. And you can’t go back to the alleys.”
“No, I got a place. An inside place. And it’s safe,” Tony said. She figured the newsie shed was probably the safest place in town to sleep, surrounded by all the boys. And, she could catch up with Ace and the others on goings-on in town. Once the nobs left, she wouldn’t need to hide anymore, so maybe she could just be plain “Tony” again and not do all the switching back and forth. No more corsets.
She hoped she could keep the warm wool stockings. After all, no one would see them under the baggy trousers. And keep the thick socks that went o
ver them. And maybe the shoes? They were nice and sturdy, just boots, no bows or fancy doodahs on them. The only really fancy parts of her outfit were the starched lace ruffles on the dress that poked her neck and wrists. She wondered if she could also keep the coat, and pass it off to the newsies as something she was given by one of the do-gooder ladies in town or even Mrs. Stannert.
The Stannerts looked like they were about to gang up on her about her sleeping quarters, so she quickly changed the subject. “When will the nobs leave town?” she asked.
Mrs. Stannert grimaced and a long pause ensued. She finally said, “In the past, they’ve lingered around until mid-week, being too hungover to make the late Sunday or Monday trains. But usually, Mr. Epperley isn’t with them. He owns a hotel in Manitou Springs and has responsibilities, so I assume he would be anxious to leave Monday midday at the latest. Balcombe, Tipton, and Quick are layabouts, living from remittance check to remittance check. Now that Lord Percy has his seemingly bottomless inheritance in hand—”
“What Mrs. Stannert is saying in her circumloquacious way is that she doesn’t know. And not knowin’ is something she doesn’t like to own up to,” said Mr. Stannert. The slight edge in his tone reminded Tony of her maman’s little knife with its hidden blade.
“Mr. Stannert, thank you for your help. Don’t you have someplace to be?” said the missus. Clickety-click-tickety: that edge was out in the open.
“The hour for serious imbibing draws near,” said the mister. He tipped his hat at both of them. “Ladies. If assistance is required, you can find me at the best-appointed watering-hole in town. Don’t hesitate to holler for help, Tony. Mr. Jackson, all of us, we’re ready, willing, and able to give you a hand.”
After Mr. Stannert left, Mrs. Stannert and Tony quickly extinguished the fires in the stove and fireplace. Before they left the room, Tony touched the keyboard cover on the piano with one bare finger. The wood seemed to glow from within and felt warm, almost alive.