by Lyn Cote
The girl was tying a red calico apron around herself when she put his thoughts into words. “Do you think they saw you was coming in, not stepping out?”
Jessie, donning a full white apron, shook her head at Susan. For a moment, Lee considered repeating the hired girl’s question. However, he couldn’t afford to antagonize Jessie any further.
“How Ruth’s baby?” the girl asked.
“Better, but not out of the woods yet. I hope Ruth heeds my warning.” Jessie motioned to Lee, directing him toward a long table beside the kitchen window. The stark white curtains that fluttered over it suited the sparsely adorned whitewashed room, and it all seemed to go with its cheerless mistress. She ordered, “You might as well sit.”
With clenched teeth, he obeyed, balancing his hat on his knee. He hadn’t known exactly what to expect from Mrs. Jessie Wagstaff, but it hadn’t been this. How long did this woman think she could get by with treating him like a pesky bill collector?
Ignoring him, the two women went on with their obvious morning routine. Fine. Just as long as breakfast is good and comes quick. Susan picked up a milk pail and left by the back door. Jessie filled a wall-mounted coffee mill and began to crank it. The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans made his mouth water.
He got up his nerve to attempt to get a toehold here. “Do you have a room for rent?”
“I have no vacancy and even if I did, I never take in male boarders. A widow can’t be too careful when it comes to gossip.”
Her dismissive tone sparked his temper. “I want a room—not a widow,” he snapped back.
She glared at him.
Suddenly he didn’t like Jessie Wagstaff one bit. But he reminded himself that he didn’t need to like her to achieve his goal. His long-delayed purpose for coming compelled him to swallow her rebuff. He reverted to his lifelong tactic. Charming nonchalance had always infuriated his family while giving them no opportunity to badger him. He gave her a practiced, languid smile and dusted the top of his hat with careless fingers. “I’m merely looking for a clean room and good food. You were recommended and—”
“Mother!” A young lad with tousled blond hair, still dressed in his white nightshirt, rushed through the curtained doorway into the kitchen. The sight of the boy caught Lee off guard. Her son—this was Lincoln.
As Jessie unhooked the jar of freshly ground coffee from the mill, the boy grasped her forearms and bounced on his bare toes. “There was a policeman and a horse. I saw them out of my window.”
Jessie balanced the coffee jar to keep it from spilling. “Well, why not? Policemen often come down our street, Linc.”
The boy dropped his hold on his mother and turned to Lee. “Who’s this?”
Lee looked into the face of the boy—so new to him, yet so familiar. Without warning, the innocent face unleashed an avalanche of wrenching images inside Lee. Phantom cannon roared in his ears and the sweetly putrid smell of gangrenous flesh made him gag. Fighting the urge to retch, he clutched his hat brim with both hands.
Susan came in and set a heavy milk pail on the edge of the sink. “Mister, you be all right?”
He couldn’t answer. He fought free of the haunting sensations. “I’m fine.” Both women were staring at him. “I’m fine,” he repeated, his voice firmer. “I’m Lee Smith.” He stretched out his right hand and grasped the youngster’s hand.
“Linc, Mr. Smith is staying for breakfast,” Jessie said. “He is new in town and wanted to rent a room from us. But since we don’t have any rooms available, he’ll have to look elsewhere.”
Linc moved closer to Lee. The boy’s scent, a mix of cornstarch powder and soap, blotted out the lingering horror in Lee’s memory.
“Mr. Smith, I wish you could stay,” Linc said. “I’m the only boy here.”
Unused to being around children, but touched by this sentiment, Lee clumsily stroked the boy’s hair. “I’m happy I was able to meet you, Linc.” Poor kid—defenseless in a household of “skirts.” Well, maybe I can to do something about that.
Jessie came up behind the boy and turned him by the shoulders, then swatted him gently on the behind. “Young man, you need to get yourself ready for breakfast. You remember what happens today, don’t you?”
“The game’s today, isn’t it?” Linc hopped up and down. “It’s April ninth!”
Smiling, Jessie bent and kissed the bobbing head. “Yes, Linc, it is finally the ninth. Go mark it off on the calendar.”
Beaming, Linc charged toward the calendar beside the pantry doorway. He lifted a pencil, dangling from a string, and marked a large “X” through the date.
His mother touched the boy’s shoulder. “Get more wood, please. We barely have enough to finish heating the wash water and I need to start brewing the coffee.”
Groaning, the boy padded back out of the room.
Jessie went to the sink and began filling the two large coffeepots with water.
“What game is Linc excited about?” Lee asked, searching her face.
“Today is the first exhibition game of the new Chicago White Stockings Baseball Club. My son is an avid supporter.”
“Is he?” Lee grinned, cheered to see that she wasn’t as stern with her son as with unwanted strangers at her door.
Jessie began spooning coffee into the pots. “Yes, he can tell you all about them and the new National Association of Professional Baseball Players.” Lee liked the way her voice gentled as she spoke of her son.
“Five games they play with five other teams,” said the hired girl, carrying a wire basket out the back door.
“Yes, would you like us to recite the names of the other teams, Mr. Smith?” Jessie surprised Lee by actually chuckling.
Emboldened by this, he took another chance and asked, “Thank you, no. But when do you think you might have a vacancy?”
“You are persistent, Mr. Smith. But even if I had a vacancy and even if I rented to males, I still would never rent to a stranger. I cannot, will not, rent you a room, Mr. Smith.”
In Boston, it had all seemed so easy. She ran a boardinghouse. He’d rent a room from her. Behind grimly smiling lips, Lee gritted his teeth. I’ll get into your life one way or another, Jessie. I’m late but I’m here to stay.
A young woman’s voice from the other side of the curtain interrupted them, “Mrs. Wagstaff, is the wash water ready? Some of the boarders are complaining.”
He watched Jessie grimace, but her voice did not betray this. “Please tell them it won’t be long.”
The young boarder murmured indistinctly and retreated.
Linc came into the kitchen, pulling his suspenders into place. Jessie motioned her son to the door. “Hurry, Linc, we’re running late.”
A querulous voice issuing from the hallway startled Lee. “How long is a body supposed to wait for a small pitcher of warm water?” A very old twisted-looking woman, leaning heavily on a gnarled wooden cane, made a good effort at stomping into the room. Common politeness made him rise.
“Why are you entertaining a man in this kitchen at this hour? Or is he peddling?”
“I’m not a peddler, ma’am,” Lee cut in, holding back his temper.
The old prune ignored him and spoke to Jessie. “Is he another army comrade of Will’s? I thought we were all done with that sort of chicanery. They start by making women believe they are army friends of their husbands and, in the end, the ninny women have bought worthless shares—”
“I’m not—” Lee began, but Jessie overrode him. “Miss Wright, Mr. Smith arrived this morning looking for lodging and employment. He is staying for breakfast.”
“Humph. Too poor to buy his own breakfast…” she grumbled.
Linc brought in an armload of wood. Miss Wright scolded him, “You there, boy, why didn’t you bring in enough wood last night?”
Bristling, Lee was impressed by Linc’s composure while under attack. The boy carefully, but swiftly, loaded the wood into the stove.
The irritating old woman went on, “If his fa
ther were here, he would take a strap to this boy—”
“No, he wouldn’t…” Lee and Jessie, who had spoken the same words at the same time, stopped and stared at each other.
“Humph!” the old woman declared. “Send that worthless black girl up with my water. I don’t know why I put up with the inconvenience of living here. If only Margaret were still alive,” Miss Wright continued her tirade, thumping her cane all the way down the hall.
“Why did you say that about my late husband?” Jessie asked him, eyeing him with fresh distrust.
Scrambling for a reason, he lied through all of his smiling white teeth, “No particular reason. I just don’t like peevish old women. And before breakfast.”
Susan entered with the wire basket now full of brown eggs. When she glanced darkly at the curtained doorway and grumbled to herself, Lee was certain Susan had heard every nasty word the unpleasant old woman had said.
Jessie shook her head. While Susan shot inquiring glances his way, Jessie never turned her eyes toward him. Her ability to ignore him completely grated on his tender nerves. Why couldn’t he ignore the fact that she’d matured into an attractive woman? Why couldn’t she have turned out to be a mousy, miss-ish widow who’d welcome a man at her door—just the kind of woman he’d expected and the kind he avoided? But Jessie Wagstaff was both pretty and a woman to be reckoned with. Not at all what he wanted.
Soon the aromas of bubbling coffee and sizzling bacon and eggs made Lee’s stomach rumble. Finally, Jessie removed her white apron. At her nod, he followed her through the curtain into the long, narrow dining room. She carried a large tray, laden with a covered blue-and-white tureen filled with oatmeal and a matching platter of the bacon and eggs to the table.
Breakfast, at last.
Lee scanned the room. The rectangular table of dark walnut, though covered with a white oilcloth, stood out as a showpiece with its ornately carved legs. Three women sat around it, the old one with her cane, a middle-aged redhead, and a pretty young blonde. This should prove interesting.
He bowed to them. The young, stylish blonde nodded politely and looked away. The middle-aged redhead ogled him. Miss Wright scowled at him. He smiled his most aggravating smile at the old biddy.
Jessie supplied the introductions, “Mr. Smith, you have already met Miss Wright. This is Mrs. Bolt and Miss Greenleigh.”
Mrs. Bolt, the redhead, simpered, “Your chair, I believe, is next to mine, sir.”
Lee bowed to the ladies once more and sat down. Linc welcomed him with a grin. As Lee spread the crisply starched napkin across his lap, he heard the old lady sniff pointedly. He looked up. Everyone, except for the old woman and him, had their heads bowed for morning grace. Scold me, will you?
He waggled his forefinger as though chastising her. Then smiling inwardly, he folded his hands in his lap and lowered his head as Jessie prayed aloud. Afterward, Mrs. Bolt, who immediately informed him she was a war widow and taught eighth grade, kept him busy lying to each of her questions. Interspersed between the coy widow’s chatter and Linc’s occasional comments about the afternoon’s game, the old spinster glowered at him. But overall, Jessie’s silent, unwelcoming perusal discouraged him most. How would he break through the wall she surrounded herself with? Without telling her the truth?
The meal ended. Linc dashed upstairs to get his books. In bonnets and gloves, Miss Greenleigh and Mrs. Bolt departed to the local school where they both taught. The old woman, thumping her cane as though still scolding Lee, crossed the hall to the parlor. He and Jessie were left alone at the table.
“What kind of work will you be looking for in Chicago, Mr. Smith?” Jessie asked him in a cool tone, daunting him further.
“Clerking,” he mumbled. How did one go about finding a job in a strange city?
“The McCormick Reaper plant is nearby at the corner of Rush and Erie. But there are many offices downtown or at the grain elevators along the river or the lumberyards—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Smith.” Linc rushed in, saving Lee from more of this dismal information. “Mother, I’m ready for school.” The boy halted beside her, his hair slicked back with water. “Remember—I’ll be going to Drexel Park to see the White Stockings.”
“Yes, and that’s after school.” Jessie tugged his earlobe.
“Aw, Mother.” He headed out, calling over his shoulder, “Bye, Mr. Smith, I wish you were staying.”
Touched in spite of himself, Lee called farewell. Linc wouldn’t be hard to get close to. Lee stood up. “I’ll be off now.”
Jessie accompanied him to the front door, evidently to make sure he left the premises. At the bottom of the front steps, he looked up at her standing in the doorway of the simple white frame house. Again, he was struck by her young prettiness, which her serious expression couldn’t hide. And he recalled the intriguing fact that she’d been coming home this morning at dawn. Where had you been, Widow Wagstaff? “Thank you for a fine breakfast.”
“You’re welcome. Please let me know how you get on, Mr. Smith.” Her face wore a warning expression that did not match her polite words.
But the Widow Wagstaff would see him again and soon. He’d left his valise on her back porch.
Chapter 2
When Jessie returned to the dining room, Susan was still clearing the breakfast dishes. Jessie read the question on her friend’s face. “Yes, he’s gone.”
“What that man come here for anyway, I want to know?”
Jessie shrugged her shoulders. But the stranger’s presence, a crowing rooster among a brood of fluttery hens, had disturbed her.
“We’ll probably never see him again.” Even as she said the words, she thought Mr. Smith might prove to be the bad penny, always turning up. Her mind returned to Miss Wright’s earlier comment about men who passed as army friends to fleece widows. Her husband had served, caring for the wounded. He’d had two friends, both named Smith—an ambulance driver and Dr. Smith, Will’s best friend who died soon after Will in the final months of the war. So many Smiths in the world.
She pushed this weight aside and helped Susan. When they entered the kitchen, Susan set her stack of dishes down with an irritated thump.
Jessie pursed her lips. “You heard Miss Wright—”
“‘Worthless black girl.’ After the war, when I come north free, I think Chicago’s gone to be my promised land. But I work here for more’n five years and I still that worthless black girl.”
Coming to Susan’s side, Jessie pressed her cheek to Susan’s and tucked one arm around her friend’s waist. “I know it’s hard to forgive and forget again and again, but she’s too old to change—”
“I don’t ’spect her to change her ideas about all colored folks, just me. I work hard—”
“And I thank God for you everyday.”
Susan laced her arm through Jessie’s. “Don’t you know I feel the same way?”
Jessie smiled. “Susan, I couldn’t do all this work by myself and still have time to mother Linc.”
“God bless me with you.”
“We were both blessed. You needed work and a home and I needed help.” Jessie drew away, feeling an unusual restlessness. That man wouldn’t leave her mind.
“I got more’n a home here. I got a friend, who teach me how to think free.”
Jessie looked lovingly around the simple kitchen. “I know what you mean. When I was twelve, coming to this house to be Margaret’s hired girl set me free, too.”
“I don’t know how you turned out so sweet raised by such a hard-hearted step-daddy.”
“How my mother can love someone as unlovable as my stepfather…” Jessie caught herself before saying more. Margaret wouldn’t have liked what Jessie’d just said. “I hope Margaret taught me how to show my love to others.”
Susan began rinsing dishes. “Margaret did a good job. Everybody know you got a big heart. And that’s the trouble with you. I bet you didn’t get two hours sleep last night.”
Jessie yawned and stretched her arms
overhead, wiggling out the kinks in her back. “‘I can do all things through Christ who strengtheneth me.’”
“I know that, but do He want you doing everything?”
Jessie sighed and reached for a dishcloth.
Susan yanked it out of her hand. “Go nap. I can do these dishes alone.”
“I’ll help you then lay down.”
“You go now or I’ll do the shopping and you won’t get to see your mama today.”
Jessie gave Susan a crooked smile. “All right, Miss Susan.”
With an oak basket on one arm, Jessie inched through the bustling crowd of women in bonnets at the Lake Street open market. The stalls were filled with farmers’ rhubarb, eggs, and more.
“Mrs. Wagstaff, your boy need any pencils today?” The double amputee sat on a homemade wicker wheelchair at his regular spot on the corner.
“Yes, he goes through them like lightning.” She gave him a penny and looked in the crowd for her mother’s arrival.
He tossed the bright yellow pencil into her basket.
A cool breeze off the nearby Chicago River blew over them, making Jessie press a lavender-scented handkerchief to her nose. “That awful odor! Forgive me for mentioning it. How do you stand it all day?”
“My nose must get used to it.”
“They can’t fix the Chicago River soon enough for me,” Jessie spoke through her handkerchief.
He pointed a yellow pencil at her like a teacher with a pointing stick. “Do you really think they can change a river’s flow by digging a deep ditch?”
“We’ll know that in July.”
“Jessie.”
She turned to greet her mother, a slender woman with the same dark hair and eyes and a handkerchief over her nose also. For a moment, Jessie hoped her mother would open her arms and pull her in for a quick hug. But, of course, her mother merely offered Jessie her hand. Hiram Huff had taught them never to show affection in public or private. Just thinking her stepfather’s name sparked fire in her stomach. God, free me from this anger, she prayed silently.
Almost cringing, Jessie’s mother spoke to the pencil–peddler. “My husband said this pencil broke because it’s poorly made. He wants you to return it to your supplier.” Her mother’s face turned bright pink.