by Lyn Cote
She leaned her head back to kiss him in return.
He gently slid his lips from hers. Oh, Cecilia, what am I going to do with you?
Chapter 10
The sky threatened rain as Linc and Cecilia set out down Market Street for a Saturday-afternoon promenade, very different from the fashionable Montgomery Street one. After Clarissa’s nasty call, he’d decided a good way to cheer Cecilia was to introduce her to the avant-garde of San Francisco. Now he had qualms.
He’d learned from childhood how to mix with all classes, colors, and types of people. His parents with their wealth and zeal for social issues had led the way. Both of them had also shocked other Christians with their involvement with “undesirables.”
“Who are these people you want me to meet?” she asked. Would Cecilia be able to see these people as they were or only as the personas they showed in public? “The artistic community parades down Market Street on Saturday.”
“While the hypocrites, who think Hunt is a fine young man, walk Montgomery Street?” she snapped.
“This afternoon is just to widen your experience. Miss Fourchette said both she and Bower would help.”
She waved his words away. “Hunt is Bower’s brother-in-law now. They’ll all close ranks.”
Linc tightened his grip on her arm. Her cynicism grated on him. “Don’t always assume the worst about people. Have I ever failed you?”
“I trust you more than anyone else in San Francisco.”
How deeply had this troubled young woman worked her way into his heart? Too deeply. He took a painful breath. “If that’s the best you can do.”
“Sorry.” Her chin dipped low. “Your daughter shows what a good man you are.”
Before Linc could react, a handsome man with a shock of blond-gray hair, Ambrose Bierce, a noted writer, walked up to Linc. “Wagstaff, you’ve brought the scandalous Miss Jackson to the rogue’s promenade.” Bierce bowed over her hand. “How do you stand Wagstaff? He’s so upright he makes my teeth ache.”
Looking bemused, Cecilia curtseyed.
Linc groaned. “Just because I don’t want to drink with you all night on the Barbary Coast—”
“Hey, Wagstaff!” another man hailed them. “How’s that rag of yours going?”
Linc introduced Cecilia to McEwen, an editor of another avant-garde paper.
A lady—rouged and sporting an outrageous pink feather boa—swept up to them. “Lincoln, introduce me to my rival.”
Linc bowed. “Miss Jackson, Miss Bonnie LaRoux, a lady of the stage.”
“Oh, you’re the scandalous redhead. Delighted, I’m sure.” The actress touched gloved hands with Cecilia, then turned to Linc. “I’ve gotten a part in that new play opening at the Alhambra.”
Cecy felt her spirits lift as the five of them promenaded together, greeting others who all—shockingly—laughed over her scandal. Who would have dreamed Linc had friends like these?
The five of them ended up at Delmonico’s for an early steak dinner. Daringly, she ordered champagne for everyone—in spite of Linc’s frown. The champagne bubbles tickled her nose and she giggled. The electric lights and gilded rococo mirrors dazzled her eyes. The tart, witty conversation flowed around her. The words weren’t important. Being a part of a group again was.
After her third glass champagne, the actress eyed Cecy. “So how wealthy are you, dear?”
Cecy nearly choked. No one had ever asked her that question before. And she didn’t know the answer. Her mother’s advice came back to her. Yes, she would talk to her business advisor. Soon.
“Bad taste, LaRoux.” Bierce shook his head. “The oppressed never ask the oppressor how much she has in the bank—especially before the check’s been paid.”
Cecy looked around warily. Had she offended them in some way?
“They’re both just showing their lack of breeding,” McEwen apologized. “Socialism is in vogue.”
“According to Marx,” Bierce supplied, “each man should put in what he is able and take out what he needs.”
“Which sounds good, but isn’t very realistic.” Linc rested his elbows on the white damask.
“Why, Lincoln?” the actress asked as Bierce lit the cigarette she held in a long ivory holder.
“Because, the poor can be just as greedy as the rich. Being poor is no virtue,” Linc said.
“But isn’t your rag intended to do exposés?” McEwen demanded.
Exposés? Cecy frowned into the pale champagne in her glass.
“Yes, the poor read all about the rich in every evening newspaper,” Linc said. “But the rich know nothing of the poor.”
“Oh, let’s talk about something amusing.” Miss LaRoux waved her boa. “The poor are a bore.”
After the flamed dessert, Linc stood up. “Miss Jackson and I must be leaving.”
Cecy rose, a little wobbly. “I enjoyed meeting you all.”
Bierce winked. “You’ll find you have much more fun as the scandalous redhead.”
Outside mist floated on the night breeze. Linc helped her into a hack. Sighing, Cecilia leaned her head back. “What fun people.”
“They’re fun—this early in the evening,” he cautioned her.
Cecy couldn’t make sense of his answer, but she floated lighter than air like the bubbles in the champagne.
Soon the hack let them down at Cecilia’s home. Knowing that gossips were probably at their windows, Linc tried to quiet Cecy who was giggling. The butler opened the door. Linc almost carried Cecilia as he hurried her into the foyer.
“Cecilia?” Her mother, dressed in a lavender flannel wrapper, stood at the top of the curved staircase. “You said you’d be back much earlier.”
“I’m sorry, Mother.” Cecilia clung to the post at the base of the balustrade. “We had dinner with friends.”
The nurse behind the lady touched her arm. “Well,” her mother began, “as long as you’re—”
Cecilia stepped forward and tripped somehow. She gave a trill of a giggle. Linc caught her before she fell. But when he looked up, he glimpsed Cecilia’s mother’s white, stricken face.
With Del in the middle, Linc sat in the front seat beside Cecilia, who controlled the tiller of her electric runabout, motoring them to the Bulletin office. Inquiring at the employment agencies about her old nurse Millie Anderson hadn’t paid off, so Linc had told her to place a classified ad.
As they drove past trees, budding white, along the street, he made himself face forward. Cecilia glided in and out of his thoughts. Her rich brown sugar eyes, that little mole beside her upper lip…
“Is this the turn?” She grinned at him with a saucy glint in her eye.
He nodded. “You’re in a good mood.”
“I am.” She grinned again. “Mr. Bierce called me about getting up a theater party. Would you like to come along?”
“I’ll consult my extensive social calendar,” he replied dryly. Linc’s mood lowered. He’d hoped glimpsing bohemian life would cheer Cecilia, not ensnare her. Had he led Cecilia, already so dear to him, into the path of temptation?
All last night he’d poured his heart out, begging God to take away his attraction to this lovely young woman. But his grief over losing Virginia kept intruding. The same, old empty feeling filled him.
Cecilia interrupted his thoughts. “I can’t wait to go out again.”
“I understand.” A young, vibrant woman needed to be out having fun. On the other hand, he was a widower with children to raise. Very aware of the sullen child sitting beside him, Linc pondered how to help Del. Cecilia parked in front of the newspaper office. Inside, Linc escorted her to the Classifieds Desk. “I’ll leave you here. I want a word with Fremont Older.” With a hand on Del’s shoulder, Linc guided the boy to Older’s office doorway.
Waving them in, Older said a few more words into the phone, then hung up. “Hadn’t seen you for a while. How’s the heiress?”
Linc sat down and gave a half-grin. “Please don’t beat around the bush.” He pu
lled Del close to his side. The boy glanced at Older, then stared at his feet.
“Did the papers tell the truth about her?” Older leaned back.
“The papers didn’t get much right.”
“And who is this young fellow you have with you?” Older nodded toward Del.
“This is Del, my housekeeper’s grandson.” He felt the same twinge he always felt when he couldn’t speak the plain facts about his true relationship to Susan and Del. But rarely did anyone understand even after detailed explanation. Susan never even tried to explain.
Older stared at Del. “Need a job, son? I could use another messenger boy.”
Del looked startled.
“No, thanks,” Linc replied. “Del has schoolwork to do.”
“He can read a little, can’t he? Count to a hundred? What else does he need?” Older asked.
Irritated, Linc gripped Del’s shoulder. “Del’s father and grandfather were both educated at Howard University. I expect him to follow in their distinguished footsteps.” Linc had hoped visiting a large newspaper office might catch Del’s interest, not bring up again the whole matter of how the world looked down at him.
“You don’t say?” Older glanced curiously at Del. “So when’s your rag coming out?”
Linc wished he knew how Del was reacting. “I plan to get the first issue out in late March.”
“Still muckraking?”
“I interviewed the fire chief, how he’d fight fires in event of a major earthquake.”
“The public won’t thank you for it. They don’t want to know—”
“I want to know,” Linc insisted. Remembered images of leaping flames—roaring, crackling—froze Linc inside. “At eight years old, I survived the Great Chicago Fire.”
“Sorry.”
“I don’t want my daughter going through something like I did.” God, keep us safe.
Older considered this with a grim expression. “That interview might be good idea. Shake people up—especially our do-nothing, pretty-boy mayor.”
In early morning darkness, Linc drove along the coast by the glow of a full moon. Cecilia napped beside him. Hearing the slap of waves, he followed the uneven dirt road toward a huddle of waterfront buildings. The scene was anything but romantic. Crude shanties, dilapidated storefronts—weathered and splintered from salt spray—hugged both sides of the road. The stench of fish and saltwater hung in the air.
He recognized the cannery and parked in front. A lone dog barked in the stillness. Linc folded up his collar against the damp chill. It was for this day that God had called him to San Francisco, the day he’d planned for, the reason he made his foray into San Francisco society to meet Miss Cecilia Jackson. Today he would measure the true size of her heart and the mettle of her spirit. Making up for lost sleep, he closed his eyes and dozed.
A keening, screeching whistle woke Cecy. She sat up in Linc’s front seat. Bleak kerosene lights flickered in a string of buildings. The maddening whistle continued. The rank odor of rotten fish hit and, half awake, she gagged.
Linc awoke. “We’re at the cannery across the Bay.” He helped her out and they entered the drafty warehouse-factory, open on one side to the sea. The whistle broke off.
Linc spoke close to her ear. “Remember. I’m here to do research for an article, maybe a book. Keep your eyes and ears open and remember everything.”
A tall, cadaverously thin man in a canvas slicker loomed over them. “You two ain’t here to work the catch. Who are you?”
“I’m Linc Wagstaff and this my assistant.” He offered his hand. “I have permission from your boss, Mr. Boynton, to observe how a cannery works. Are you the foreman?”
“Yeah, but what-cha want to know what we do here for?” The man spat tobacco out of the side of his mouth.
“Maybe I’ll write an article in the paper or a book about it,” Linc said.
The man rubbed his stubbled chin. “Ya don’t say? You’re sure you talked to Mr. Boynton?”
Linc nodded.
“Okay, just don’t get in the way. We got a sardine catch to work.”
“On an article like this, I usually work along with everyone so I can get a feel for the job.”
Cecy was distracted by people, no doubt from the shacks around the cannery, who had begun streaming in. The fish stench kept Cecy’s stomach churning.
“Won’t-cha get your good clothes dirty?” The man objected.
Linc shrugged. “These are my work clothes.”
“Swells, huh?” He tossed Linc a dirty long oil-cloth apron. “Wear that. Follow me.”
Linc shrugged on the apron and hurried after the foreman.
Cecy struggled with her revulsion. She wanted to escape to the auto outside, but a dreadful rumbling, groaning came from the seaside opening and swallowed up her words. In the din, she hurried to keep close to Linc. Visiting a cannery had sounded so inoffensive. Now inside the cannery, reality hit her from all sides—the horrific noise, the filth-encrusted walls, the grinding of crushed shells and debris under her feet, the wretched stink. Catching up with Linc, she snagged his sleeve. She tried to make herself heard over the noise, but failed.
He shook his head, then followed the foreman toward the sardine boat unloading its catch.
Cecy hung back, watching the fishermen on the boat deck scramble to send the silvery run of wiggling sardines down a huge funnel into a kind of small boxcar. As each was loaded, men appeared and trundled the wheeled cars farther back into the cannery.
She turned her head to watch the contents of the carts being dumped onto long metal tables. Instantly, swarthy unkempt men and gaunt women and children—who stood on rickety crates—pulled out short, fine knives and began slitting the small fish and flinging fish entrails to the floor.
Cecy retched and retched, but thankfully her stomach was empty. Finally, she closed her eyes and leaned back against a rough beam. She would have fainted, but the thought of touching the filthy floor made her fight for consciousness. Something tugged her skirt. Her eyes flew open. She glanced down.
A small, wailing child, still in baby skirts—grimy ones—clung to the fold of her dress. The child held up its arms. Cecy looked around desperately for a mother seeking a child. No mother looked up from the work of gutting sardines.
Confused, she frowned down at the toddler. What was a baby doing in this awful place? And the baby was barefoot. She snatched the child off the filthy floor. That can’t be healthy. She carried the baby over to the nearest table. She leaned close to one of the women. A slimy blot of fish insides landed on Cecy’s cheek. She exclaimed, flicking it off.
More horrific noises descended from the floor above. Cecy couldn’t make herself heard above the din. The women at the table all motioned her back toward the middle of the room.
Queasy, she put the child on her hip and picked her way through the crowded room, filled with tables and frantically laboring men, women, and children. In the center of the room, a stove had been stoked and feeble warmth hung around it. Boxes had been set around the stove—away from the chill seaside drafts.
She glanced down into the boxes. Babies? Babies wrapped in tattered blankets slept in the boxes. A dilapidated pram stood to one side with two babies. A lone wooden chair sat by the stove. Had they just dumped their babies here? With no one to care for them? Bewildered, Cecy sank onto the rickety chair.
Within seconds, more sleepy, shoeless toddlers in soiled dresses crowded around her. Each grabbing a piece of her skirt, they clung to her, leaning against her, knuckling sleep-crusted eyes. Some crying; some sober.
Poor children. Her heart was wrung. She clumsily patted a dark-haired child whose tears ran down dirt-lined cheeks. “There, there,” she murmured into the surrounding maelstrom. The child looked up at her solemnly and used Cecy’s dress to wipe its eyes and nose.
A warm wetness oozed over Cecy’s lap and down her legs. The toddler sitting on her had no diaper. She closed her eyes in resignation. Surrounded, she couldn’t move witho
ut disturbing, distressing the innocents further. She felt their abandonment. Their eyes pleaded, “Why doesn’t mama hold me? I need her.” Cecy stroked another small, downy head.
Cecy wanted to escape, but how could she abandon these little ones? They’d been deserted just as she had in faraway Boston. Left to cry all alone.
Hours later, Linc found Cecilia sitting by the stove. Her hair had come loose. She had fish guts smeared down one cheek and dirty fingerprints on the other. Her white collar was grimy. In her arms, she held a swaddled Chinese baby. She’d never looked more lovely to him. “Cecilia.”
“Linc,” she said the word with what sounded like heartfelt relief.
A short Chinese couple stopped beside Linc, bowing. The woman lifted the baby from Cecy and said something in Chinese.
The husband translated, “Wife say thank you hold baby. Our first son. One week old.”
“Congratulations.” Linc shook the man’s hand, then pulled a dollar from his pocket. “This is for the baby.” The couple smiled, bowed and then straggled out. Noise still rattled and groaned above them.
“We’ve been here forever.” Cecilia stood up and stretched.
“Eleven hours.”
“Please can we go?” Her hair slid completely down to her shoulder as he led her outside into the sunshine. Cecilia paused beside his auto.
“What’s wrong?” He held the door open for her.
She looked down at herself. “I’m too filthy to sit in your car.” She started to cry in little gasps. “Why did you bring me to this awful place?”
He stared into her eyes. “Have you ever been filthy before?”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“Everything. Have you ever been filthy?”
“I’ve never even been allowed to be smudged.”
“Exactly. How else could I make you understand how awful it feels to be filthy?” He motioned around him. “Did you imagine a cannery being anything like this?”
“I imagined men doing something with fish—”
He pressed her. “Not the children, not the babies—”
“No!” Gazing, she turned around in a complete circle. “Why do people let awful places like this exist?”