by Kim Taylor
Perfect. Mollie pushed gently against the roll of money in the clean black trousers. She made an accordion of the pocket lining until the money had no place to go but up and out. She turned back to the stereoscope, as if she’d never moved, too awe-inspired by the concept of a spring.
Annabelle, safely again on the dime-museum floor, tipped her head in decorous thanks. “My husband is—” She pointed vaguely in the direction of nowhere.
“Ah. I see.” Annie Hindle lifted her hat. “It was a pleasure.”
Mollie slid quietly away. Yes, it was a pleasure indeed.
They waited for the “gentleman” to bend to the stereoscope. Annabelle put her arm through Mollie’s, and they strolled to the street.
There would be enough money now, and no more rent notices on their door. They’d waited a long time for that kind of mark. Simple and quick and no need for a knife. How perfect. The arrogant smile and outrageous disguise made it easy to take money from those smooth wool trousers. Annie Hindle would not miss it in the least. Annie Hindle might even make a skit out of it, how she’d been duped by a couple of Bowery Girls. Maybe throw in a bit of a song-and-dance about Annabelle Lee and hint at her luscious breasts. Mollie laughed then, at the thought of it.
“What are you laughing like a fool for?”
“Sure was a handsome gent, wasn’t he?” Mollie asked.
“Mmm. What eyes. Did you see those eyes? I’d half a mind to kiss him right there, being he was so kind about helping me down. I wouldn’t charge him a cent.”
“You might once you saw what he’s missing down below.”
“Nothing can be missing on him.”
“Her.”
“What?”
“That there was Annie Hindle. From over at Tony Pastor’s. Jesus, Annabelle, you’re getting soft.”
Annabelle’s cheeks reddened to the color of her dress. “Well, I’ll be damned. Just for that he—she—deserved his, I mean her, money taken. Oh, never mind. Let’s go get us some oysters and beer.”
“You ever wonder,” Mollie asked, “why Miss DuPre came back here?”
“She’s got a good heart, that’s what I know.”
“If I had everything in the world, I sure wouldn’t share it. Charlie says she was a thief. That means she either hit a jack-pot on a mark, or met some fella low-lifing and tricked him into marrying her. How else do you get from here to there?”
“Hard work.”
“If you’re a man. I ain’t never seen you or me or her ever owning some business or factory.” Mollie shook her head. “I just want to know, is all.”
“What?”
“Why she thinks what she does helps.”
“I used to ask you to read menus and sign my name for me,” Annabelle said. “You see me asking you for that anymore?”
“No.”
“She’s got a good heart, and what she does helps me.”
“I’m just saying.”
“What are you saying, Moll?”
“I’m saying, I’m saying . . . I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“No, you don’t. She got friends who don’t do nothing but buy hats and travel to Europe and kick their maids. And she couldn’t do it. Her guardian told her to make something of herself, something . . . what did she say . . . ‘make something better than some sow-eared fat-hipped silver-spooned lady.’”
“Where’d you hear all that?”
“She told us in reading class.”
“In reading class. And all we do is type ‘Dad had a lad.’”
“How come you don’t like her?” Annabelle asked.
“Don’t like charity workers. You know that. Parade around like they’re on a plane higher than you. And she ain’t really no better than you or me.” She thought of Emmeline in the Elevated, tempted by a set of shells. “She ain’t. Just wants us to believe it.”
“She has a good heart, Moll. Leave it alone.”
They crossed under the tracks of the El, taking to the sidewalk that would lead to Fulton’s Fish Market.
“Sure is a handsome fellow, isn’t he?” Mollie said.
“Who?”
“Annie Hindle. Miss Annie Hindle.”
“All right already.”
“I hate to say it, but that kinda thing sure as hell beats typewriting. The look on your face alone . . .”
“Mollie, if you don’t shut up, I’m gonna take that money you stole straight to the first cop.”
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
“I AIN’T NEVER WORN STAYS this tight before.” Mollie pulled at her waist, but the fabric was so smooth and taut her fingers found no hold at all. She was left to twist around and blow out all her breath for a bit of relief. She gazed at herself in the long window of the settlement house. She did not recognize in the least the figure she saw before her, though her cheeks pinked with pleasure at how good the figure looked. She had chosen a dress of muted teal that dipped to a V near the waist. The bustle was small, Annabelle having made some alterations, and the material draped in simple, straight lines. The buttons were a darker blue, like the East River on a rich spring day. They began as small pearls near her neck, gradually gaining heft and sheen as they descended down her chest. Over the dress she wore a short jacket with a puff of fabric at the shoulders, tapering to clean lines at her wrists. Two fine and deep pockets were hidden at each hip. Mollie placed her hands in each, and twirled before the glass.
She had brushed her hair until it shined. It was parted neatly in the middle, small curls at her ears, a tidy bun at the back. She had even touched a pinkie’s worth of Annabelle’s paint to her lips.
Yes, she was quite pleased with what she saw. “I would say,” she said to Annabelle, now clad in a dark gray dress and cloak, both of which shimmered in the morning light yet kept her figure hidden in shadows, “I would say I am almost pretty. Pure Bowery Girl.”
“Glad we didn’t buy that hat; your head would be too big for it. Haven’t I always said ya got natural beauty, Mollie?”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but did ya see the green-grocer nod at me? I been used to him glaring at me for years, just because once or twice I borrowed an apple. It’s like I got some grand disguise. Kinda like Annie Hindle. I bet a cop would help me across Broadway. I bet you and me could go to the opera and the gents would swoon.”
Mollie signed her name with a flourish. She winked at the matron and said, “Didn’t recognize me, did ya?”
“O, capital L, Life and, capital L, Love, exclamation point. Capital O happy throng, enter, capital O, Of thoughts, comma, whose only speech is song, exclamation point.”
Why, today of all days, did Miss DuPre choose to provide a dictation lesson? Mollie felt split in two—one half in her seat, the other lounging in the sun outside the window. Besides, it was Friday, the day Mollie found most interesting when cleaning up the yard.
“Capital O heart of man, exclamation point, lowercase c, canst thou not be, enter, capital B, Blithe as the air is, comma, and as free, question mark.”
Miss DuPre’s voice rang through the room. She moved between the rows of desks, one hand holding her skirts, the other fingering the three keys tied to her wrist.
It was Friday. The day people came to find Emmeline DuPre and inquire about money possibly owed or promised.
Mollie knew none had any hold on the Do-Gooder; all were from her old life, and had the rags and shiny elbows to prove it. But they came, nonetheless, sitting first in the vestibule, and when turned away by the matron, snuck into the yard and onto a bench for a rest before shaking a fist at the third-floor window.
Even Jip had shambled his way down from the Ragpickers’ Lot—and when asked his connection to the settlement house, proudly gave the name “Mollie Flynn.” Such went the chatter of the ward, for Mollie had told no one she came here, yet someone somewhere knew.
Click clack clatter ding. Charlie’s face was red. He leaned over to read off Mollie’s paper. “She talks too fast.”
“It’s
Longfellow, for Jesus and Mary’s sake. Don’t ya know it already?”
“Can’t say it’s familiar. . . .”
“It’s boring.”
“What is boring, Miss Flynn?”
The clack and clatter stopped. Fingers floated in the air above keyboards, curious eyes turned to Mollie. Miss DuPre lightly tapped her keys against her skirt.
“I’m sorry?” Mollie said. “You were talking to me?”
“What is boring?”
“Are we supposed to type that?”
Charlie snorted, then stared at the floor.
“Do you have allergies, Mr. White?”
“Um, no, ma’am, I think I’m coming down with Mr. Dunlap’s cold. And I wish him well and hope he comes back soon. But I’m grateful to you for continuing to continue on.”
“What is boring, Miss Flynn?” She stared across the classroom, her keys still tapping.
Jesus, this woman let nothing go. Mollie leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. She felt heat rise on her chest and neck and up into her cheeks. She hated to be stared at. All Mollie had done was whisper to Charlie. Mr. Dunlap wouldn’t have cared. But perhaps Miss DuPre was getting back at her. One card topping another. Mollie had caught her at her game; now Miss DuPre wanted to make very sure that she was in charge.
“Are you going to answer the question, so we can complete the lesson and move on?”
“Well, see, it’s like this: It’s a simple poem with simple short words, and we’re already pretty good in here about capitals and exclamation points and such. If you’re gonna do Longfellow, why not something more challenging? I mean, it’s hot in here. We’re gonna all be asleep if we have to keep typing that out. O Life and Love! O happy throng. Enter. Blah blah blah.”
“I see. ‘A Day of Sunshine’ bores you. Perhaps you can share a better one? From your vast store of poetry.”
“If you don’t mind.” Mollie stood. “And maybe you can take my seat and I can stand up there.”
The floor creaked under Emmeline’s foot. Now all eyes were upon her.
“I wager you know how to type, Miss DuPre.” Mollie smiled.
They passed each other in the narrow space between the seats; Miss DuPre’s skirts were a deep blue, in a tone quite similar to Mollie’s. Miss DuPre smoothed the hair at the side of her head; Mollie’s own hand raised to do the same. The Do-Gooder settled in Mollie’s seat.
Everyone watched her. All fingers were ready and waiting, even Miss DuPre’s.
“Proceed, Miss Flynn. . . .”
“Ahem . . .
“It’s down in Bottle Alley
Lives Timothy McNally
A wealthy politician
And a gentleman at that.
The joy of all the ladies
And the gossoons and the babies—”
“This is dancehall gibberish.” A woman in the front row—who had once called Mollie “Irish trash”—pursed her lips and crossed her arms.
“I’m sorry. I could recite ‘Why Did They Dig Ma’s Grave So Deep.’ I know that one. But let’s not, as it’s too sad, and crying before lunch just does a number on the stomach. I’ll just jump to the chorus.”
The woman twisted in her seat. “I said this was ridiculous. She doesn’t know any poems. She’s just a piece of Irish—”
“At the door on summer evenings
Sat the little Hiawatha;
Heard the whispering of the pine-trees,
Heard the lapping of the waters,
Sounds of music, words of wonder;
‘Minne-wawa!’ said the pine-trees,
‘Mudway-aushka!’ said the water.
“Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee—
“You’re gonna have ta figure out the punctuation on your own,’cause I ain’t never seen this written down. Just used to be something us kids liked to shout on the streets. Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee—”
“Wah wah what see? How am I supposed to type Minnie whatever? I’m going home.”
“Put your purse down, Miss Roth, and don’t interrupt me.”
“But—”
“Maybe next week you can bring a poem for dictation.”
“But this is nonsense.”
“Wah-wah-taysee,” Miss DuPre said. “Capital W, Wah, dash, wah, dash, t-a-y-s-e-e, comma, enter.” She smiled at Mollie. “Continue, Miss Flynn.”
A NIGHT OF STARS
THE YARD WAS QUIET, save for the sssh of cigarette paper being burned. Mollie continued to rake. She did not know what to make of the woman who reclined against the edge of a picnic table and smoked a cigarette in a yellowed ivory holder. The woman stroked three feather boas, pink and dusk and graying white. Her dress was not a dress at all, but a silvery nightgown. Her feet, clad in thin brown boots, were crossed at the ankle, tucked under the bench, as if the boots embarrassed her. Sssh went the cigarette paper. The woman blew smoke rings, which she watched until they curled and dissipated in the air. She wore fingerless lace gloves; her nails were ringed in black.
“I can tell you this,” Mollie said. “If she ain’t come out to greet you, she ain’t coming at all.”
“I have the patience of a saint.” The woman patted the bench beside her. Her words lilted with an accent Mollie could not place: part German, part music. “Come sit by me.”
“I got work to do.”
“Come sit by me and I’ll tell you a story.” The woman’s eyes, lined in dark kohl that showed her age more than hid it, glittered silver. “Come, come. Even charity workers need a break.”
“I ain’t a charity worker, I’m just learning how to type.”
“An admirable profession. Marking down words. All those words, all that paper. Where does it go, once read and most likely forgotten? Of course, some words are never forgotten. Shakespeare comes to mind, though I confuse the plays. Hamlet and Ariel and Lear could all be in the same play in my little head. It tends toward confusion anyway.” Her laugh turned into a small cough. “Come and sit. And you can tell your friends you sat by a duchess.”
“A duchess.”
“Set your rake down and sit.”
“All right.” Mollie laid the rake over the trash, to keep it from blowing away. When she sat down, the woman reached out a hand and touched the curl of hair next to Mollie’s neck.
“I wore my hair like this as a girl. How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Ah, sixteen. The age for love and grand ideals. I was trapped in my father’s castle then. It overlooked the North Sea, where the wind shook and rumbled all the days and nights. I loved the wind. I had a long window of cobalt blue glass that I left open summer and winter. You see, I was in love with the gardener on the estate. I’d watch him from my window, watch how gentle those hands were as they snipped the dead buds off bushes. My God, his heart was bigger than this yard. He took to climbing the wall. He had very strong hands. He would wait until the moon shone on the gray stone, then lift himself up and over the balcony. He was a distraction, for my life was only my room and the hollow halls. And then one day, the Russian Ballet came to the city, and off we went in our carriages. And I fell in love again. So I ran away.”
“What about the gardener?”
“He was nothing compared to the dance.” The woman sighed. “But my mother found me. And promptly tied me to the bed with silken ropes. Prisoner in my own house. The windows remained open, but the gardener did not come anymore. I suppose my mother had found out about that, too.”
A movement came from the window of the reading class. Annabelle waved, then gestured that she would meet Mollie outside.
“I chewed through the ropes. I stood on the balcony and jumped.”
“You what?”
“And I flew. Over the lights of Szczecin, which warmed me enough all the way to Moscow.”
“You flew.” Jip was a perfectly normal human being compared to this one.
“I danced with the Russian Ballet. Under an assumed name, which I’ve shortened to Miss Z., as no
one in America has the tongue or intelligence to pronounce it. The ballet was a dream. One dream can change your world forever.”
“Can you fly now?”
“Too fat.”
“Too fat. I see. And how do you know Miss DuPre ?”
“I taught her to be a lady.”
“Was she really a thief ?”
“A thief? My goodness. Did she tell you that?”
“Well, there’s rumors going around, and she don’t say much except she ‘wants to do something meaningful.’ It’s like she don’t really got no past.”
“Pasts are better imagined than remembered.” Miss Z. pulled a bit of tobacco from between her front teeth and flicked it to the grass.
“Are all of Miss DuPre’s old friends like you?”
“How’s that?”
“Nuts.”
The door to the yard creaked open. Miss DuPre stood in the frame. “Madame Zwierchoniewska. Come.”
It was the first time Emmeline DuPre had invited someone in.
Annabelle cut in front of Mollie and walked backwards. She looked like a cat with a canary. “Mollie Flynn’s got a suitor.”
“No, I don’t.”
Annabelle lifted an eyebrow. “Mollie, you need to look. You have no idea what’s in front of your face.”
“I look. I see,” Mollie said. “What?”
“Charlie White’s coming over. For dinner.”
“Why?”
“He likes ya, Mollie. All afternoon he’s saying, ‘You should’ve seen her, looked better than Miss DuPre herself.’”
“But I don’t—”
“He’s not Seamus. And he’s not Tommy. That’s what matters. He’s part of our new life. And he’s bringing meat.”
And then there was Charlie White, sitting in the one chair they owned, his hat balanced atop a brown paper sack, his clarinet case on the floor. He sat quite stiffly, as if he were at church and fearful of being smacked for slouching in the house of God.