“What about the other children? Don’t they help?”
“Wild as bucks. All three of them. Too much like their father, I’m afraid,” Awful growled. “I never have said it, but Mrs. Lawson and her two youngsters would be better off by themselves.”
Burns suddenly snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute! I know of a job that might do. Not much, but—”
Eagerly, Awful said, “It don’t have to be much. What is it, Doctor?”
“Well, someone just left the hospital, and we do need a girl to help out.”
Gardner listened carefully as the doctor explained about the need for someone to help out with the cleaning. “It’s just the thing for her!” Gardner exclaimed. “That way, you can kind of keep an eye out for her. I don’t like the children—especially the young girls—to have to roam these streets. Do you think she can have the job?”
“I think I can talk the head nurse into it. Let’s ask Gail if she wants it.”
At once, Awful called out, “Gail, come over here, please.” And when the girl came, he said, “You know, we’ve been praying about a job,” Awful said. “And—well, I think we might just have an angel here to answer those prayers.”
“An angel?”
Gail looked doubtfully at the doctor, and Awful grinned broadly at the girl’s confusion. “Well, sort of an angel. I’ve never heard an angel with a Scottish accent, but it may be that God sent the good doctor our way. Tell her what you just told me, Doctor.”
“It’s just that I heard the head nurse say that they’re going to have to hire someone to do cleaning at the hospital. It doesn’t pay much, but if you want it, I think I can get the job for you.”
Gail’s face lighted up. She reached out as if to touch Dr. Burns, then drew her hand back quickly. “Oh, Doctor, that would be so good!”
“Well, that’ll be the way of it, then. I’ll hurry back to the hospital and tell Nurse Smith that I’ve found her a new helper. It’s hard work,” he warned. “And not a lot of money.”
The girl looked at him with glowing eyes. Her face was thinned down by poverty and hardship—yet somehow there was an almost ethereal beauty in her at that moment that Dr. Burns found intriguing.
“I ain’t never gonna be able to thank you enough, Doctor!” she whispered. Then tears filled her eyes, and she quickly turned and walked away. When she found Jeb, she put her arm around him. “An angel has found me a job, Jeb,” she murmured. She whispered some of the details and looked over to where the doctor was talking with Awful Gardner. “He’s an angel with an accent.” Her eyes were almost worshipful as she watched Dr. Burns. “Ain’t he wonderful!”
“He don’t look like no angel to me. He don’t have no circle around his head, and he ain’t got no white robe on. He just don’t look like an angel’s supposed to look.” Nevertheless, when he saw the look on his sister’s face, he smiled and said, “But I guess he’s okay. In a pinch, I guess any kind of angel will do . . . !”
CHAPTER TWO
An Open Door
The winter of 1897 had been particularly hard on the tenement dwellers of Lower Manhattan. Snow had fallen out of the sky as if dumped from celestial wheelbarrows, clogging the streets. The omnipresent clothes of tenement dwellers that hung out over the balconies and on the rooftops were frozen stiff, and the shrill, keening winds whistled down the canyons of poverty, turning lips blue and freezing hands into raw, red knuckles. The poor had done what they always did during inclement weather—survive as best they could—while the rich ordered servants to throw more wood in the fireplace, or simply chose to travel to exotic places that offered a warmer climate. Those of Five Points had no such options.
This year, to everyone’s surprise, an early spring had loosened winter’s icy grip on the city. And it was on one of those warmer days that Awful Gardner was walking along the roof of the rescue mission. Standing near the edge, he took a deep breath and looked out over the city with satisfaction. “Faith, it’s good to feel the warm winds again! Maybe my old bones can thaw out a little now.”
A cool March wind blew slightly, but as Gardner walked along, examining the city that stretched out beyond him, he had a feeling that better things were coming.
He had come often to the roof of the mission to do his thinking and praying. This particular morning he carried a small cage built of sticks, which he now set down gently on the roof. The occupants of the cage—two sparrows that he had found freezing in the snow and had nursed back to health—began chirping in the warm spring sunshine. At the sound of their chirping, Awful smiled and stopped to whistle to them. They’d come to recognize him, or so he thought. When he opened the door, one bird hopped out onto his hand, peering upward with a bright, beady eye until Gardner produced a large mealworm that he had in his other hand. The small bird took it eagerly, ate it, and then emitted a long series of cheerful-sounding chirps. Gardner held his hand high, and the bird looked around, as if confused at this offer of freedom. Giving a slight cry, the sparrow spread his wings, which beat furiously, then rose into the air, circled around, but finally returned to where Awful stood. As the bird moved back toward the cage and hopped inside, Gardner muttered with astonishment, “Just like too many folks I know—can’t wait to get back into their prison.” He laughed, left the door open, and freed the other bird. Awful stood there smiling as he watched the sparrow wing high above the city.
“Now that’s the way,” he nodded with satisfaction, watching the small bird disappear into the falling darkness. “Find your own way. God never intended for birds to be caged.” He gave one look at the first bird, then laughed and said, “You’ll have to go, old boy—now find your way.” Reaching inside, he grasped the bird, pulled it free of the cage, and tossed it high into the air. For a time it circled, peeping in a piteous tone, then rose and disappeared around the corner of a neighboring building.
Gardner went back to the narrow stairwell and descended past the top floor that contained his small quarters and those of some of the workers, and then down to the second that had been converted into a large area filled with cots for vagrants and derelicts. Half of this space was devoted to a kitchen and dining room where meals could be prepared and dispensed to those in dire need.
As he descended to the first floor of the mission, he heard the tinkling of the tinny piano that had been donated by a saloon. Pausing at the foot of the stairs, Awful cocked his head and listened to the pleasant music. The strains of “Rock of Ages” came to him, and a smile turned the corners of his lips upward. “The boy’s doing so well,” he muttered to himself. “It’s a shame he can’t have proper lessons.” He listened while the next song floated through the air. “There is a fountain filled with blood. . . .” he sang along softly. When the music finally ceased, Awful turned and headed into the main part of the building, where he spotted Jeb Summers sitting on a stool at the old, beaten piano. Standing over him was Tony Gibbons, listening and beating time against his thigh with one hand.
“Now that’s fine, young man,” Tony said, nodding approvingly. He was a short, pale-faced man with the red-veined face of a chronic drinker. Despite his obvious poverty, there was an air of dignity about him, and he attempted to keep some semblance of respectability in his worn clothes. His suit had been made for a larger man and hung loosely upon his thin frame. His tie, though worn and frayed, was neatly knotted and hung over a white shirt that was missing most of the buttons. His shoes had seen their day of wear, but they were polished, and his hair was neatly combed. Tony had been one of those derelicts who had been hauled bodily into the mission—dead drunk and in desperate need. He had stayed at the mission for a week, been soundly converted, and now had reached the point where he could work some. He was a quiet man, and when he had discovered that Jeb Summers longed to play the piano, he surprised everyone with his knowledge of music. He had proven to be a good teacher for the boy.
Leaning over the boy now, Tony said quietly, “Your fingering was good on that one, Jeb. But let me show you what to d
o with your left hand.” Jeb hopped off the stool as Tony sat down to demonstrate. The man’s stubby fingers flew over the ivory keys. The piano was tinny and chronically out of tune—yet Tony’s power and skill coaxed an amazing sound from the ancient instrument.
Jeb Summers was small for his eleven years, yet there was an eagerness in his eyes as he looked up at the small man. “Gosh, Tony, I don’t think I’ll ever learn to play like that!”
“ ’Course you will, Jeb,” Tony encouraged him. He smiled at the boy, and memories seemed to come back to him. Must’ve been a million years ago when I was his age, he thought, watching the boy’s eager face. I wish I could go back and get some of the years that I threw away. Oh, well, it’s too late for that. But if I can help this one, maybe it’ll make up for a little of what I’ve done to myself. He allowed none of the regret to show in his face, but smiled at the lad. “Now—I found this for you.” He reached over to the table and picked up a book. “About time you learned a little bit more about reading music,” he said. “This playing by ear is well enough, but a good musician’s got to be able to read the notes.”
Jeb took the music book, looked at it, and with one finger began to call out the various notes. Tony chuckled and said with a smile, “Why, there, you see—you’re well on your way! Now—you try to find these on the piano. See—this is E.”
Gardner stood watching the pair fondly. After a few minutes, he moved across the room and said, “Well, we may have a whole orchestra on our hands the first thing you know.”
“Gee, Mr. Gardner, Tony’s teaching me everything!” Jeb was so excited that his pale face seemed to glow. He ran through a few notes for Gardner and said, “Look—that’s what it says right there on that page!”
“That’s fine, Jeb! You do what Tony says and you’ll be playing at a fancy concert hall before you know it.” Then he added, “It’s getting pretty late for you, isn’t it, Jeb?”
Jeb looked up and a startled look suddenly crossed his thin face. “Oh no!” he said, “it’s dark already. Pa’ll thrash me for sure!” He scrambled off the stool, grabbed the book, and ran for the door. He disappeared, slamming the door as he always did.
“Does the boy have any talent, Tony?” Gardner asked.
Gibbons sighed deeply, sat at the piano, and ran his fingers over the worn keys, then shook his head. “It’s like finding a fresh, bright flower in a garbage dump, Awful. If he had any chance at all, he could become a fine musician. But he tells me that his stepfather is against anything to do with music. All he wants is for Jeb to work, so he can drink up what the boy brings home.”
“Well, we’ll just have to see if we can get that stepfather of his converted, then. He’s a rough one, Harry Lawson is. The last time I tried to talk to him, he got angry and threatened to punch my lights out if I ever mentioned God to him again.” His eyes moved to the door and he said, “I’m afraid young Jeb there won’t get much of a greeting from Harry Lawson.” Gardner shook his head at the thought of what awaited the young boy at home.
****
Jeb ran down the streets dodging traffic. More than once a curse was hurled at him as he narrowly avoided collisions with the men who moved in and out of the saloons and billiard halls lining Water Street. Any other boy of his age thrown into such a setting from a gentler world would have been sorely frightened, but Water Street was the only world that Jeb Summers knew. He passed by gamblers, pimps, prostitutes, drunks—paying them no heed at all, for his mind was racing to devise a way to avoid a thrashing when he got home.
When he reached the tenement, Jeb stopped to catch his breath, then warily climbed the three flights of stairs. As always, the familiar smell of cooked cabbage and sour clothing lingered in the air, and his stomach growled. When he reached the third floor, he stopped abruptly and wished suddenly that he didn’t have to go in. “If I had anywhere else to go,” he whispered, “I’d go there. I hate this place!” Yet deep inside, he knew his lot in life ended here, with little hope for change, so he walked to the door, hesitated, then slowly opened it and stepped inside.
“Well, look what the cat drug in!” Bart Lawson, a younger version of Harry, was the oldest of the three children that Harry Lawson had brought into his marriage with Martha Summers. He smirked over at his father and said, “Look at him, Pa! Ain’t he something now?”
Harry Lawson had both elbows on the table. He held a fork in one hand, as if it were a shovel, and stopped scooping the beans into his mouth long enough to grunt, “Where you been, boy?”
Before Jeb could answer, Martha pulled his chair out, saying, “Sit down, Jeb, and eat your food before it gets cold.”
Riley, the second boy, brushed the black hair out of his dark eyes. He was eating as steadily as the others and said with his mouth full, “I ain’t heard you answer Pa yet. Where ya been?”
Jeb had learned to lie when necessary. It was one of those habits needed for survival on Water Street, along with fighting. “I went to see if I could work some for Mr. Henley down at the grocery store.”
“You did, eh?” Harry said. He chomped his beans, swallowed, then loosed a tremendous belch. “What’d he say?”
Quickly, Jeb improvised a story. “He said the boy he’s got now may be leaving and I could have his job when he left.”
“See you take it then, ya hear me, boy?”
“Yes, Pa, I will,” Jeb said, taking his seat quickly so as not to anger the man.
There was little talk round the table. Harry Lawson was often drunk when he got home, and everyone knew the smallest thing could set him off. Silence was a common part of most meals, lest someone get a cruel thrashing for crossing him. The food, which consisted of one large bowl of beans, the remnants of a roast, and two loaves of hard brown bread, soon disappeared almost magically down the throats of the Lawson family.
Hurriedly, Martha scooped the last of the beans out of the bowl and put them on Jeb’s plate. Then she took a piece of roast from her own and added it, along with a crusty piece of bread. She spread a minuscule amount of butter across the hard bread and said, “Eat now, Jeb.” Her face was worn, and she looked at her husband from time to time with a nervous and frightened expression. The life had been bled out of this woman. She had known better days once, but Harry Lawson was a hard man, one who was enough to drain the life and joy from any woman.
Spoons broke the silence as they scraped on the plates. Harry looked up from his empty plate and said, “Give me some of that coffee, woman.”
“All right, Harry.” Carefully, Martha measured a cup full of steaming coffee into a chipped cup and set it before Harry.
“Where’s the sugar?”
“We . . . we’re all out of sugar.”
Lawson cursed vilely. It was typical of him to choose a minor thing like this to loose the violence within him. No one escaped his anger—he cursed the government, the ward, the state, the President, the police; then he started on the preachers and do-gooders of the country. The others all sat quietly, while Bart and Riley grinned at each other as they listened to the vulgar tirade that flowed from their father’s thick lips.
Pearl, Harry’s daughter, sat to one side, thoroughly enjoying the scene. She had her mother’s dark hair and prominent eyes. She was nothing like her stepsister, Gail. Pearl was lazy and hated work. She preferred to be out and around, and already at her youthful age, she was being drawn to men with less than honorable intentions. “Give it to ’em, Pa,” she encouraged her father. “They ain’t no good—none of ’em.”
Right then the door opened and Gail walked in. Pearl grinned and said, “Well, it’s her majesty back again!”
Gail Summers had grown accustomed to Pearl’s sarcasm. All three of Harry’s children from his first marriage constantly called her “your majesty” for her honest attempts to keep herself clean and decent. They saw this as “airs” and lost no opportunity to ridicule her for it.
“Well,” Bart grinned, “it’s the princess.” He reached over, picked up the bowl, looked
into it, then glanced up with his piggish eyes glinting. “Too bad, your majesty, you missed out on the meal. You’ll have to go to the Waldorf Astoria and eat with the other swells.”
Gail said, “It doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry.”
“Here, have some bread,” said Martha. “I think there’s a few beans left in the pot on the stove.” She scurried around and managed to find a small plate and place it with its meager contents before Gail, who sat down and began to eat in silence.
“Why are ya late? You and your brother there can start gettin’ to meals on time!”
Jeb glanced up, anger flashing from his eyes. Harry Lawson did not appear for half the meals, but usually was down drinking in some tavern. But Jeb knew better than to reply and ducked his head again.
Gail said merely, “I’m sorry to be late.”
“Well, this is payday, ain’t it?” Lawson grunted.
“Yes.” Without argument, Gail reached into her pocket, pulled out a handful of coins, and handed them to Lawson. He put them in his palm, raking them over with his grubby fingers, then scowled, “Where’s the rest of it?”
“I . . . I kept out a little to get some groceries.”
At Gail’s words, Lawson brought his fist down on the table. Then he rose, walked around the table, and, grasping Gail by the neck, lifted her to her feet. She was helpless against his brute strength and bit her lips to keep her cry back.
Martha stepped forward, whispering, “Please, Harry—!”
“Shut your mouth or I’ll give you what for,” Lawson raged furiously, shoving his frail wife back. He turned Gail’s face around and said, “Come on, give me the rest of it, I says!”
Gail reached back into her pocket, pulled out a few more coins, and handed them over.
“Now—let’s have no more of your thieving ways!” he shouted, pushing Gail away. The frightened girl staggered, and when she caught her balance, she started to move away toward the bedroom.
The Rough Rider Page 3