Her hands shook as she held up the metal instrument. Was he going to . . . ?
“Now, girl!”
She rushed over and handed it to him.
“Get some clean cloths. We’re going to pull this child out. Bring me my knife. I’m going to cut her to allow a smoother exit for the baby through the birth canal.”
“What?”
He swore. “I’m not going to open her up, just make a cut. Why did my nurse have to visit her son’s family and leave me with an incompetent Irish maid? Holiday? I never get a holiday. She’s been away two whole weeks now.” He rose and grabbed his bag. “Babies don’t care about holidays—Christmas or any other.”
Grace felt like she was about to faint or lose the contents of her stomach or both. She grabbed a stack of towels Mrs. Wallace must have readied and positioned herself at Mrs. Parker’s head so she would not have to witness what the doctor was doing.
“Yes. That’s good. Hold on to her shoulders, Grace.”
Finally something she could do. The mistress’s head dropped limp against Grace’s collarbone. Grace held her against the doctor’s pull and then, finally, the babe cried out. He passed the shivering, bloody baby to Grace after he clipped the umbilical cord. She quickly wrapped the baby in towels as he continued working on Mrs. Parker. Grace tried to coo to the baby. She dipped a cloth in a bowl of washing water and dabbed at his eyes and mouth. A pink, fat boy. Eventually the baby relaxed and she held him tight, thinking the naked child must be cold.
After some time the doctor took the child from Grace, and she worked at changing the drowsy woman and her sheets the best she could. When Alice Parker was snug and sleeping, the doctor handed the baby back to Grace. “Nicely done.”
She hadn’t messed up. Even the doctor thought she’d done well. A feeling of light rushed over her. She wasn’t stupid, simple, or even incapable. She had helped with a birth and now held a new baby fresh from the hand of God, kissed by heaven.
Grace looked at the bundle in her arms. Sweet as the wee one was, there was something odd about his head. “Doctor, isn’t his head shaped odd, though?”
He rubbed his weary eyes. “A tough birth, but he came through fine. Big lad, nine pounds likely. I’ll bring my scales by tomorrow.”
“But his head . . .”
He blew out a breath. “An infant’s head is pliable, has to be to pass through the birth canal. It will regain its shape. Now see that the baby nurses just as soon as Alice awakes, which won’t be long now. Take care that she stays warm and get her to drink some broth just as soon as possible. She’s had a tough time of it. She’s the one you should be concerned about.”
Grace started to go with him to the door and then stopped, realizing she had the baby.
“I’ll see myself out and find Mr. Parker. Good night.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
He turned, a surprised expression blanketing his face.
“I mean, thank you for helping Mrs. Parker. She surely needed you.”
He smiled. “I appreciate that, Grace.” He twisted his neck. “I do sometimes feel as though folks don’t appreciate my efforts. Kind of you to mention it.” He nodded toward Mrs. Parker. “She needs you now. Good night again.”
Grace sat in a chair next to the fireplace with the baby in her arms. Oh, the power of a kind word. She would try that on the Parkers later. “A soft answer turneth away wrath.” While Mrs. Hawkins had said her husband had spoken those words, they actually came from the Bible, she said. And it did seem like something Reverend Clarke would endorse.
She glanced down at the sleeping babe. “Oh, Douglas. What odd parents you have, laddie.” She smiled when she thought about his name. “Thankfully you are himself. If you’d been a lassie, you would have had a more evident tree name. Douglas is a proper name for a lad.”
The baby slept. The mother slept. Grace fought to keep her eyes open.
Sometime later, Grace woke to Alice Parker calling her name. “Let me see my baby.”
Grace went to the cradle, where she’d laid Douglas and brought him to her.
“A boy?”
“Yes, ma’am. A healthy boy.”
The woman sighed and then worked at getting the baby to nurse. She looked up at Grace with droopy eyes. “You know, Grace, when I was younger, I thought I could grow children like I grew a garden.” She laughed. “But plants are silent. They don’t complain. You can just look at them and see how beautiful they are.”
Grace went over and touched Douglas’s downy head. “He is beautiful.”
Mrs. Parker made a face as though the baby was hurting her.
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
“Yes.” She lifted her neck and Grace hurried to put a pillow behind it. “Grace, light the lamp and bring me that Burpee catalog. I want to show you how to order the coralbells.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
20
IN THE WEE HOURS OF CHRISTMAS MORNING, Owen and Jake headed toward a dive where the Dusters hung out. They had not mentioned their plan to Nicholson or to the kids in the park. The fewer who knew where they were staking out the gang, the better. The walls had ears.
Jake dropped a banana peel on a pile of garbage at the curb. It did not take long for a rat to scramble out of the shadows and claim it. The sanitation department was supposedly cleaning up the streets of New York. Not in this neighborhood.
“Got a new informant,” Jake said. “A new lad. Colin.”
“Think you can trust the kid?”
They walked on together, dodging factory workers preparing to report for duty at the fish processing plant nearby. These men, like them, did not have the holiday off.
“Comes from St. Patrick’s school over by the headquarters.”
“So?”
“So the day shift says we can use him.”
Owen halted. Jake took a few more strides before he realized Owen wasn’t moving. “I know what you’re thinking, Owen. Don’t trouble yourself.”
“Don’t trouble myself? Jake, you know as well as I do half the cops in the station are crooked. What if Big Bill hears about this? This kid—If it’s not a noose, he probably wants a big payoff.”
“Right. Half. Half are not crooked. I checked. The fellas I talked to got no love for Big Bill.”
“Not that we know of.”
“Hey, I ain’t no rookie. The patrolmen I talked to come from my old precinct. I know them.”
“Fair enough. Half are not crooked. The other half love a good joke . . . or a bad one.”
Jake pointed his lunch tin at him. “I scared the socks off the kid. He won’t double-cross us.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Owen gave his pocket a tap and felt the heavy lump of the silver pocket watch, his constant reminder of why he did what he did. Owen pulled the watch from his pocket and told Jake what the hour was.
“Ten more minutes and they’ll rush out of there.” Jake pointed to a pair of brightly lit windows glowing from the gray buildings like a beacon. Piano music and laughter pierced what was probably a peaceful evening for most civilized folks, who by now would be sleeping or returning home from midnight Mass.
“If only the Dusters kept a solid headquarters. Our boys run them out of one place and they set up another. We got a tough job, Jakey.”
“Don’t I know it.”
As he crouched, hand on the .32 at his belt, Owen could not help but think about the contrasts within the city. Uptown folks dined on delicacies served atop a crisp linen tablecloth. Women donned feather-plumed hats. Men sported diamond pins on their coat lapels. He knew that life well. Just a short distance away, here he was kneeling in a grimy gutter and preparing to follow the lead dog of a vice-infested gang to the nest of its leader and arrest him.
“This would be a whole lot easier if we knew what Goo Goo looked like,” he told his partner.
“Crying shame there’s no picture of him on the mug shot wall. Makes our job all the harder.”
They had spent a lot of time running down rabbit holes because they didn’t have a clear idea of who they were looking for. “Well, Jakey, eventually all the worker bees return to the hive. Maybe tonight’s the night.”
“Come on,” Jake called.
Owen looked up to see a fellow galloping down the steps of the house toward them, his unbuttoned overcoat flapping in the breeze. Owen crossed to the opposite side of the street as Jake trailed behind the man. They headed east, away from the docks. Either the hideout was camouflaged or they were being led on a goose chase.
The fellow turned the corner onto Centre and approached the open area politicians dubbed Mulberry Park. There were no lights there. Owen used only his somatic sense to estimate where Jake was and where the subject of their hunt had gone.
A few shadowy figures moved about. A lump leaning against a wall was probably just an old hobo trying to stay warm. Something whizzed past his head—a bat swooping for insects. He ducked his head, then spun around.
Couldn’t be. It was winter. No bugs.
Who was he kidding? He didn’t have good instincts. He’d never make a decent detective.
A grunt.
Jake?
Yes, a signal to move to the center of the lot. When a hand reached out and pulled at his jacket, he realized he had figured wrong. If he fired blindly, he might strike an innocent civilian. By the time he pulled out his nightstick, the thug had left.
“You all right?” Jake appeared at his side like a brownie from a children’s tale. Incredible just how dark it was.
“Fine. Where’d he go?”
Jake spun in all directions. “I dunno. You were right. We were had. We’re nowhere in Dusters territory. Better check your pockets.”
Owen slapped his sides, then slid his fingers into his pocket. Nothing.
He tore off in the direction he thought the man went. His partner’s footsteps echoed behind him. “What the devil?”
By the time Owen got to the nearest streetlamp, the fellow in the loose overcoat was nowhere to be seen. “He took my watch! That hooligan has my watch!”
Jake jogged up next to him, out of breath. “Sorry.”
By the end of the shift Jake and Owen were tired, weary, and without an arrest. They parted ways outside the Old Slip precinct, where they’d been told to go. “Another thrilling night on the beat, huh?” Jake extended his hand.
“So it goes.” Owen gave him a firm handshake and then turned to leave.
“Hey, merry Christmas. Sorry about your watch. You might check the pawnbrokers for it.”
Owen thanked him and set off toward the sanctuary of his apartment. The hollowness of his pocket sent needles of regret through his whole body.
Early Christmas morning Mrs. Hawkins arrived at the Parkers’. Grace let her in the kitchen door. “I would have come last night, love, but Mr. Parker insisted that you had everything under control.” She set a basket down on the kitchen table. “How is the mother?”
“Doctor says she’s weak, but she’s all right.”
“And how are you, love? Tired?”
“Oh, Mrs. Hawkins. I was so frightened. I never helped with a birth before. But the doctor said I did well.”
“Fine, love. I knew you could.”
“You did?”
“Certainly. Sit now. I’ll make us some tea. Where are the children?”
“Still asleep.”
“The baby?”
“I just checked. Asleep in the cradle next to Mrs. Parker’s bed. Mr. Parker slept in his study last night, and he hasn’t yet come out.”
“Fine. Sit, love.”
Grace collapsed on a kitchen stool.
“The services last evening were inspiring. Here it’s your first Christmas in America and you couldn’t be there. Pity. Well, babies don’t care about holidays.”
“So I’ve been told.” Grace was so tired she mumbled, unable to summon much of a response.
Mrs. Hawkins filled the teakettle. “What’s that, love?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“When I had Mr. Parker on the phone last night, he said you had been out somewhere with the oldest girl, Hazel.”
“I was. She got sidetracked looking at a friend’s new doll over on the other street and couldn’t find her way home.”
“Oh, my.” The Hawk returned to the table and sat down. “Remember, love, Mr. Parker doesn’t allow his children out without an adult.”
“I know. I promised him it would not happen again.” Grace leaned on one elbow. “I remembered what you said earlier . . . about who to trust . . . and a policeman helped me look for her.”
“Good for you. Well, that’s all fine now. I know you’ve been working hard here.” She rose and pulled a bundle from her basket. She laid a red checkered napkin on the table and unwrapped two large buttermilk scones. “I have more for the children, love.”
Grace felt a tear slip down her cheek. “So thoughtful of you.”
“There, there, now. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ve insisted Mr. Parker send for his sister. She teaches at a women’s college upstate. Edith is her name. It’s the Christmas holiday, so she can come.”
“You know her?”
“I have not made her acquaintance, but when I pressed Mr. Parker about getting family to help, he told me about her. Odd, since I thought Mrs. Parker had relatives in town.”
“She doesn’t, Mrs. Hawkins. She told me.”
“Well, all the same, this woman will be here later today.”
Grace wanted to tell Mrs. Hawkins that Mr. Parker was not at all the reserved polite churchman she and the reverend thought he was, but she couldn’t summon the strength to start that discussion. Later. They could talk about it later.
The whistle on the kettle blew and Mrs. Hawkins rose to retrieve it.
The noise woke the children, who came lumbering down the stairs. They gasped when they saw a stranger in the kitchen bearing red-wrapped gifts.
“Mrs. Santa Claus,” Linden cried.
“No, just someone to help, love.” Mrs. Hawkins gathered the children to her like a grandmother.
An hour later Mrs. Hawkins said good-bye. “When Mr. Parker’s sister gets here, call Mrs. Jenkins.”
“Your neighbor?”
“Yes. She’ll let me know, and I will have a carriage sent over for you. We’ve cooked a goose, and after you eat with us, you can take a nice, hot bath.”
Grace nearly cried. What a lovely thought.
Later that morning, after getting some sleep, Owen went downstairs to borrow his neighbor’s telephone. Mrs. Karila let him in. “You call doctor?”
“No, my mother, if you don’t mind.”
“Mind? No. But your face. You need doctor.”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Karila. Just some bumps and bruises. Part of the job.”
She frowned. “I have something for that.” She made him wait while she went into the kitchen. She returned with a plate of pickled herring, a dish these transplants from Finland often tried to push on him.
“Thank you. May I use the phone first?”
“Yah, yah.”
He dialed his mother’s exchange.
“Oh, Owen. How did you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“Your father is in the hospital, Owen. I thought perhaps someone had told you.”
“No, I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas and see how he was. What’s wrong?”
“Doctors aren’t sure. You better go right over to Bellevue. I’m going back there myself shortly.”
21
IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON, Mrs. Parker came downstairs and reclined on the sofa. Her husband had emerged long enough to kiss the new baby, deliver presents to the other children, and get a scone for himself. Then he returned to his study to read.
The children were remarkably quiet, probably because being allowed to play downstairs had become a rare occurrence and they didn’t want their mother to send them away.
It was past noon on Christmas, but
oddly the mistress of the house wanted Grace to decorate.
“I did not have a chance earlier, Grace, but I simply must have some decoration.” She sniffed. “I never had Christmas as a child. And now I always insist on decorations in my own home. Greenery on the mantel, Grace. We simply must have some of the garden inside.” Alice Parker pointed and then slumped back to the sofa. She could do very little in her weakened state.
Grace pruned some of the evergreen bushes outside and placed the cuttings around the parlor. Seemingly satisfied, the woman rose and headed for the stairs.
“Do you need help, ma’am?” Grace moved toward her.
“No!” She paused, looking from Grace to Linden, who sat at Grace’s feet playing with a wooden train. “Carry on. I’m going upstairs to rest.”
Grace returned to her work.
“Miss Gracie, did you get a stocking from Saint Nicholas like we did?” Linden pointed his wee chin toward her as she stood in front of the mantel and rearranged holly branches.
Thankfully their father had thought ahead to provide. He probably feared losing face should anyone find out the Parker children missed Christmas.
“Boys!” Hazel rolled her eyes.
“’Tis fine to ask. I did not, wee lad. Stockings are for children.”
“That’s sad.” He stuck out his lip while he rolled the train engine in a half circle.
“I don’t mind, laddie. We didn’t much celebrate Christmas in Ireland.” She stretched the truth a bit. Some Irish folks would expect visits from Father Christmas, but Grace held few memories of holiday traditions herself. Even before the workhouse, they’d had no time for it. They went to church and roasted whatever portion of lamb their neighbors could spare. Nothing more. But she was not about to tell all that to wee Linden.
At the hour for tea, Edith Milburn, Mr. Parker’s widowed sister, arrived from Albany. Mr. Parker had picked her up from the depot. Dressed in a gray suit, she tugged a red scarf away from her neck. Grace took her coat and scarf and hung them in the hall closet. She already liked this woman who dared to wear Grace’s favorite color.
Grace returned with a tea tray.
Cindy Thomson - [Ellis Island 01] Page 16