A Girl Like That

by Frances Devine

  Sarah turned. “A fellow by the name of Sam Nelson. He’s wanting to see you.”

  “Well, what does he want?” The voice sounded impatient.

  Mrs. Flannigan turned inquiring eyes to Sam. “And what would you be wanting, sir?”

  Amused, Sam answered, “Please tell your husband I’m an attorney and wish to speak with him about his injuries.”

  “He says—”

  “I heard him. Let him in.”

  The tiny woman stood aside and allowed Sam to pass into the room.

  Whereas the outside of the home had been little more than a shack, Mrs. Flannigan had apparently tried to turn the inside into something resembling a cozy home. Clean, crisp curtains hung on the lone window looking out at the filthy street. The worn, broken plank floor was brushed clean, and the walls shone as though they had been freshly scrubbed. It was obvious the Flannigans had seen better times, for a cuckoo clock hung upon the wall over the fireplace and several porcelain knickknacks held places of importance on the mantle.

  Chauncey Flannigan was rugged, or he would have been had the color not been drained from his sunken cheeks and his eyes not circled with dark rings that marked nights of worry. His thin body bespoke more than a few missed meals. His dark brown eyes squinted with suspicion from the sofa on which he sat. A crutch leaned against the wall beside him, and something steamed from the mug he held.

  He motioned for Sam to sit on a nearby chair. “What can I do for you, Mr. Nelson? I can’t afford a lawyer, so if it’s me business you’re after, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time.” He raised his eyebrows, questioning.

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Flannigan, I’m not here to solicit you as a client. Our firm has been retained by Jeremiah Howard.”

  For a fraction of a moment, a scowl appeared on Flannigan’s face. “I see. Howard is still determined not to pay my hospital bills. I’d hoped he might be having a conscience in there somewhere and just maybe he’d be changing his mind.”

  “Ungrateful wretch of a man,” Flannigan’s wife said as she stood over a pot at the stove. She seemed not to be speaking to the men at all. “After Chauncey never missed a day of work. Not even when he had pneumonia.”

  “Please, Sarah, let me speak with Mr. Nelson.”

  She turned innocent eyes on her husband. “And who’s stopping you? I was just stating my opinion.”

  Sam hid his grin beneath a cough. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a copy of the witnesses’ statements, having left out the names for the sake of privacy. He handed the papers to Flannigan.

  The injured man glanced through the papers, and confusion filled his eyes. “But why would anyone be saying such things about me?” He looked at Sam and shook his head. “I can’t imagine, sir. But I wouldn’t darken the door of a tavern. My Sarah would have my hide.”

  “And ain’t that the truth of it?” the woman said, stirring her pot. “What are they sayin’ about you, Chauncey?”

  “That I left the lumberyard with only a few scrapes and bruises.”

  She gasped, turning, the ladle in her hand like a scepter. “Chauncey Flannigan leaving his job over a few scrapes and bruises? Losing wages? Taking food out of his children’s mouths over a few scrapes and bruises? Never. It’s a pack of lies.”

  “Well, Mrs. Flannigan, my client doesn’t think they are lies. And I haven’t found any evidence that they’re anything but the truth.”

  “So that’s the way the land lies.” Flannigan’s voice took on a hard note. “I’ll be saying good-bye to you now, sir. But let me tell you this. I’m an honest man. And I’ll not sit by and let a bunch of greedy liars, paid off by Howard, ruin my good name.” He thrust the papers back at Sam. “You can be showing yourself to the door.”

  Sam slipped the papers back into his briefcase and left. He stood on the porch for a moment, glancing around at the neighborhood. A wave of nausea arose in his throat. How could people live like this? His breath caught as he glanced at the house next to the Flannigans’.

  The young woman from the train station stood knocking on the rickety door, a cloth-covered basket on her arm. She turned and absently glanced in his direction, and a startled look of recognition crossed her face.

  A sudden puff of wind caught at the napkin, and it flew off the basket and down the steps.

  As if instinct took over, Sam ran to the napkin, which had stopped just before reaching the filthy canal. He picked it up and walked to the side of the porch where she stood, her eyes wide. He grinned as he handed her the cloth. “I doubt you’ll want this now, but here it is.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, taking the napkin by one corner. “It will wash.”

  Sam cleared his throat. “I don’t know if you remember me. We ran into each other at the train station a couple of months ago.”

  “I remember,” she murmured, lowering her eyes.

  “Well. . .” Get it out, Sam. Since when were you ever tongue-tied in the presence of a beautiful woman? “I’d like to apologize for my manners. I was in a terrible hurry, but that’s no excuse to be rude. Especially to a lady.”

  As Sam stood with bated breath, the girl raised her beautiful eyes to him and flashed him a smile that seemed to light up everything in Sam’s line of vision. “I forgive you, sir.”

  The door jerked open. “Katie, I knew you’d come today!” A laughing little girl grabbed the young woman’s hand, dragged her inside, and slammed the door.

  Sam took one impulsive step forward, tempted to climb the steps and knock. Then he stopped. Of course he couldn’t do any such thing.

  He walked to his buggy and untied the horse. So the girl of his dreams was an Irish immigrant from shantytown. That rather surprised him. But at least now he could put a name to the face that haunted his every waking moment. Katie. Katie.

  He drove away from Conley’s Point, musing. Now I know where to find you, Katie girl. So don’t be surprised if you see me again very soon.

  Four

  “No, no, and a thousand times no.”

  Katie bit her lip as her pa’s voice boomed across the stage and through the empty theater. He stood nose to nose with Thomas Harrigan, and for a moment, Katie thought he might strike the manager.

  “Michael, would you be seeing my point of view for one little moment?” Harrigan’s voice of reason hadn’t gotten through to Katie’s irate pa so far. “I’m not asking for her to be part of the show. Just one song before the first act.”

  “One song? Not even one line. I’ve been telling you my daughter won’t be part of the troupe. And that’s the end of the matter.”

  Katie’s heart sank at the finality of his words. From experience, she knew he meant what he said. Still, she couldn’t let this opportunity pass without at least trying to change his stubborn mind. “Father, would you just listen?” Katie tugged on his hand until he glared at her.

  “Don’t be wheedling at me, Katie O’Shannon. I’ve said my piece, and I’ll not be changing my mind.” His features wrinkled in anger. “No daughter of mine is going to kill herself performing day after day and night after night.”

  Surprised, Katie stared as her pa’s eyes flooded with moisture. Angrily, he rubbed a fist across his eyes and stomped off the stage.

  So that was it? He believed the stage had caused her mother’s illness and death? But. . .she died of pneumonia.

  Katie squared her shoulders. She’d talk to him later. This wasn’t the end of it.

  “Well, as he said, I guess that’s that.” Mr. Harrigan threw her a regretful glance and then walked toward the wings.

  “Don’t be too sure about that,” Katie called after him. “I’m not giving up yet.”

  The tenor who usually performed before the first act had received a better offer, packed up his things, and left with about an hour’s notice. Mr. Harrigan had hop
ed Katie’s father would let her fill in until he could find a replacement.

  Determined to reason with Pa, Katie hurried backstage. She glanced around and saw him near the dressing rooms talking to Rosie. Their backs to her, she stopped as she heard her father speak her name.

  “I’m not going to let her get mixed up in it, Rosie. Not my Katie. Her mother, bless her soul, wanted something better for her. And so do I.”

  “Now, Michael, I understand your wantin’ a better life for Katie, although show business isn’t so bad, as far as I can tell. But you’re only going to push her into it if you don’t stop being so stubborn. Let the girl sing for a couple of weeks until Thomas finds someone. Maybe that’ll be enough to get the theater out of her system.”

  Katie held her breath, waiting for her pa’s response. Her heart jumped when she heard him heave a deep sigh.

  “Ah, Rosie. It’s a hard thing, it is, raisin’ a girl without her mother.” He sighed again. “I’d hoped she’d meet some young man and be pleased to wed by now.”

  Rosie’s lips stretched into a grin. “I’m sure there’s a young man or two here in Chicago who’d be happy to oblige. And the girl will more than likely be a wife soon enough. But, in the meantime, let her sing, Michael. What’s the harm in it?”

  “Do you really think so?”

  Excitement clutched Katie’s stomach. At last. A small sign of her pa’s mind opening to reason.

  “Yes, I really do.”

  Katie could have grabbed Rosie and hugged her. She bit her lip to keep from shouting.

  “Well then, maybe I’ll think about it.” Without another word, he went into the men’s dressing room.

  Katie burst forward. “Rosie! Thank you.”

  The buxom redhead turned in surprise. “Katie O’Shannon, it’s eavesdropping you are now?”

  “Couldn’t help myself. And it was well worth it.” She sent the older woman a saucy grin.

  “Don’t be countin’ your chicks before they’re hatched, missy. He hasn’t said yes.”

  “Yet.” Katie kissed Rosie on the cheek. “And don’t you be trying to marry me off. I heard what you told Pa.”

  “Ah, I was only calmin’ the man down. I’m still trying to get myself married off.”

  Katie was pretty sure she knew who Rosie wanted to marry but decided she’d best keep her lips buttoned. Her pa would have to realize Rosie’s worth on his own.

  “Thanks for reasoning with him. I want to be on that stage. I want it so badly.”

  “I know you do. But remember one thing—the new wears off, Katie. And youth wears off, too. Don’t wait as long as I did to discover show business isn’t enough to fill a person’s heart forever.”

  The image of a handsome young man, running after a wayward napkin, flashed across Katie’s mind. Her heart raced for a moment as she remembered the look on his face as he apologized for the incident at the train station.

  Closing her mind to the memory, she sent Rosie a saucy grin. “I don’t need any young man to make me happy. The theater is quite enough for me.” But as a pair of dark brown eyes invaded her mind once more, a twinge of doubt bit at her heart.

  She spent the rest of the morning mending costumes and arranging the unruly wigs that the dancers wore. The actresses, with their friendly banter, kept her laughing. She reveled in the backstage atmosphere and wanted nothing more than to be a real part of it all. If only Pa would change his mind. One thing she was pretty sure of. The stage hadn’t killed her mother. She’d been the picture of health and happiness until she came down with pneumonia.

  At lunchtime, Mr. Harrigan called Katie to his office. His eyes danced as he ushered her in. Katie’s stomach did a flip-flop when she saw her pa standing across the room. This was it. She knew it was.

  “Katie, your father has generously decided to let you fill in until I find another singer to replace Roger.” Before Katie could respond, the manager added, “He has a few conditions. So I’ll let him take over from here.”

  “Yes, Pa?” Katie’s voice shook with excitement as her father cleared his throat and stood frowning at them both.

  “Here’s the way of it,” he said. “There’ll be no revealing of the ankles nor of. . .anything else that would be indecent.”

  Katie’s face heated from hairline to neckline. “Pa!”

  Frowning, he raised his hand for silence. “I’ll approve all costumes to make sure they are fittin’ and proper for my daughter to wear. And I’ll approve the songs you’ll be singing to make sure they are decent and moral.”

  Indignation sparked. “As though I’d wear anything improper or sing an immoral song. Grandma would—” At her pa’s scowl, Katie snapped her lips together.

  He shook his finger at her. “Don’t be interrupting me, young lady. I’m not finished.” He turned a stern eye on her. “You’re not to be accepting dinner invitations from any of the young bucks that’re sure to be asking, and you don’t go anywhere with anyone without my approval.”

  “Where would I go?” She scowled back.

  His eyebrows rose, and she mentally stepped back. “Yes, Pa,” she said with unaccustomed meekness.

  Harrigan’s eyes twinkled, and he winked at Katie. “All right then, Michael, is that it?”

  “For now. If anything else comes to mind, I’ll be letting you know.”

  ❧

  “Sam, stop pacing and get down to whatever is bothering you.” The older Mr. Nelson’s impatient tone revealed his tiredness as he leaned back in his favorite leather chair in the library. Sam figured his father was stuffed from dinner and probably wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and doze off for a few minutes.

  “Sorry, Father.” Sam dropped into a chair across from his father, considering how to broach the subject. After all, several of their influential clients had business interests in or around Conley’s Patch. “I met with Chauncey Flannigan today.”

  His father paused with a match halfway to his pipe. “You went to the Patch?” He struck the match to his pipe and then tossed it onto the clean hearth of the fireplace.

  “Yes.” Sam frowned as he watched the match burn down to ash.

  “Well?”

  “Have you been down there lately, Dad?”

  “To shantytown?” He frowned at his son. “Why would I?”

  Why would he indeed? Father’s contributions to the poor were more in the manner of a few pennies in the offering plate variety. “Conditions are terrible. I saw children playing near an open ditch, containing garbage and human refuse, that ran down the middle of the street. The smell was horrible.” Sam jumped up and began to pace again. “And that’s not all. The housing is unspeakable. Hardly more than shacks for the people to live in.”

  Sam’s father frowned. “What exactly are you trying to say, son?”

  “Well, shouldn’t something be done to help these people?”

  “Sit down,” his father commanded. “I refuse to speak with you while you are pacing the floor.”

  Once again, Sam dropped into the chair.

  Mr. Nelson peered over the top of his steepled hands. “Sam, your compassion for your fellow man is commendable, but I don’t believe you understand this particular condition.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He raised his palms and sighed. “These shanty Irish are a shiftless bunch. Lazy and slothful, not to mention deceitful and dishonest. Just look at this Flannigan character.”

  His father’s voice stopped as though that settled the matter, but that far from satisfied Sam’s concerns about an entire community living in such deplorable conditions. “Please continue.”

  “There really isn’t much more to say about it. These people will take everything they can get and come back for more. You could put them in a mansion, and a year later, it would be in shambles.
They have no pride and no gumption.” He leaned forward and peered at Sam. “Trust me, son. There’s nothing you can do for these people.”

  Sam knew better than to try to argue with his father. The man was a seasoned attorney, after all. He never lost an argument. There was no point in telling him about Sarah Flannigan’s attempt at making a shack into a cozy home. There was no point in mentioning Chauncey Flannigan’s outrage at being called anything less than a man of honor. He dropped the subject and excused himself.

  Going out onto the veranda, he leaned against a pillar and gazed out into the night. A haze from recent fires hovered in the air. Most of them had taken place across the river, although a few had broken out in the city. And there was no getting away from the haze and smell of smoke in any part of Chicago.

  Sam had overheard some of the employees at the office talking about their concerns. They feared if it didn’t rain soon, conditions could only get worse.

  Sam felt they were worrying unnecessarily. After all, Chicago now had a real fire department. The volunteers had been scattered all over town, and too often, homes and businesses had burned to the ground before they arrived. Yes, surely with the new fire department, Chicagoans could rest assured that they were in good hands.

  Sam walked back inside and found his mother about to go upstairs. She lifted her cheek for his goodnight kiss. Reaching up, she brushed her hand across his forehead.

  “Son, is anything bothering you?” She peered closer. “Or are you ill?”

  Sam took her hand in his and smiled. “Nothing’s wrong, Mother. You worry too much.”

  “A mother’s duty.” She gave a small sigh. “You do know I’m always willing to listen if you need to talk about anything.”

  “Of course, I know, Mother. Nothing’s wrong. I promise.” But as he watched her climb the stairs, he knew something was—if not wrong—different.

  Grabbing his briefcase from the hall table, he went upstairs. He’d glance through the papers on the Flannigan case before he went to bed. But he had no reason to doubt his father’s assurance that Flannigan was simply another Irish ne’er-do-well out to get something for nothing.