American Pie

by Maggie Osborne

  "You can win," he muttered as he removed his coat and waistcoat and slowly rolled up his sleeves while Gustoffer continued to shout insults into the pit.

  The man Gustoffer had chosen jabbed his shovel into the dirt and roared. The other men cheered as he ran to the side of the pit and began to pull himself up to the street.

  Jamie swallowed. The bull was coming to pulverize him. This was not going to be easy. At the very moment when he most needed a sign of encouragement, the angels granted his wish. To his joy and astonishment, he spotted the young lass from Ellis Island hurrying toward him. Finding her again was a piece of luck so staggering that it had to mean he could conquer the bull.

  "Wait," he called to Gustoffer, then he sprinted forward and caught her arm, hastily apologizing for startling her.

  "Mr. Kelly!" Her wonderful dark eyes widened in surprise anddare he hope?pleasure at seeing him again.

  "Please don't leave," he said, speaking rapidly. "I must speak to you. What is your name? I don't even know your name."

  "Lucie," she said shyly, observing his suspenders and his state of undress.

  The name was as beautiful as the woman. From the corner of his eyes he mm the bare-chested giant hand himself out of the pit and start toward him. Lucie saw the man, too, and she gasped, her hand flying to her throat.

  Feeling an instinctive urge to protect her, he caught her arm as she stepped forward. "There's going to be a fight," he explained rapidly. "You'd best stay here, out of harm's way."

  Wide-eyed she stared at the man rushing toward them, then darted a look of distress to Jamie. A shudder swept her small body and horror darkened her eyes. "Oh, no!"

  "Don't go away. Please. I must speak to you."

  There was no time to converse further. After thrusting his cap, coat and waistcoat into her hands, he turned to engage the man jumping out of the pit to beat him into pulp. Praying he wouldn't be humiliated in front of her, Jamie spit on his palms, then raised his fists and stepped forward.

  Seen from a closer vantage, Jamie realized his adversary was not a giant after all, but the realization offered scant consolation. The man was an inch or two shorter but powerfully built and mad as hell.

  He circled warily, measuring his opponent and formulating his strategy. Before he could decide the best approach, the man from the pit charged him. There was nothing disciplined or civilized in the bull's style of fighting, just brute strength. He rushed in low and close, fists hammering.

  One of the blows split Jamie's lip. He tasted blood and heard a roar of cheers rise from the pit. Finally he saw an opening and punched the man in the gut, saw it didn't slow him down. The man was going to beat him into sausage and all he would have to show for his trouble was a broken body and no job.

  Rage flooded his face with feverish heat. He hadn't come to America to die of starvation or to be humiliated in front of a very special lassie. Lucie, her name was Lucie. Thrusting forward he landed a sharp blow beside the man's eye, opening a small cut. Lucie, he chanted in his mind as he landed another blow, then another. He hadn't found her again to be mortified in front of her. Dancing and dodging he planted a blow in the man's stomach, putting his full weight behind it. He needed this job and, by God, no one was going to stop him from having it. Lucie, Lucie, Lucie.

  From the corner of his eye he noticed her standing frozen in the midst of the crowd that had gathered. Her expression of mounting distress dispatched a burst of energy through his body. Her face had become as white as a chalk cliff; tears—yes, he was certain they were tearsglistened in her lovely eyes. She was trembling and her gloves fluttered anxiously about her throat and mouth. His spirit soared on wings of hope. Surely her anxiety on his behalf indicated she felt some tenderness toward him.

  Then the pit man threw a punch that lifted him off his feet and sent him reeling backward. He quit talking to himself and thinking about Lucie and focused solely on living through this fight and maybe winning it.

  Fifteen minutes later his eyes were swollen so badly he could hardly see, his ribs felt as if they were on fire. But, miracle of miracles, the man from the pit looked almost as bad as he did. They were both staggering, sucking for air, reeling with pain and exhaustion. Sweat rolled in waves from the bull's body, plastered Jamie's shirt to his skin. He had to finish it now, while he was still on his feet.

  They stumbled toward each other in the center of the crowd, dripping sweat and drops of blood. Then, blinking at the black dots dancing in front of his vision, Jamie summoned the last of his strength. When he saw his opportunity, he drew back and struck the pit man square on the jaw below his left ear. The man's eyes rolled upward. His hands dropped to his sides and he swayed, staggered backward a step, then crashed to the ground like a fallen oak.

  Unable to believe it was over and he was still standing, Jamie tottered forward and blinked down at the unconscious man at his feet. If he ever encountered Mr. Haversham again, his pugilist instructor, he would buy the man a bottle of the best champagne available.

  Henry Gustoffer appeared beside him, raised his hand in the air and declared him the winner fair and square. "Pay all bets on the mick," Gustoffer shouted. He shook his head and grinned at Jamie. "Wouldn't have believed it if I ain't seen it myself. Be here at first light tomorrow. Bring your own shovel."

  A minute ago he hadn't thought he could remain on his feet another second. Now elation flooded his aching body and he felt as if he could do anything, could overcome any obstacle. Blinking through his swollen and blackened eyes, he pushed into the dissipating crowd, searching for the young lass from Ellis Island. Not for a moment did he doubt she was waiting, not the way his luck was running today, but it surprised him to find her standing over the pit man, her face stricken and horrified.

  "Thank you," he said through his cracked lips, taking his coat and cap from her shaking hands. She was carrying a small reticule and a tin lunch pail. And somehow she managed to look crisp and tidy though the sun blazed with brutal force. "You've dressed your hair differently," he said, blurting the observation and following it immediately with an apology for uttering an improper remark.

  When he had met her on the island, she had worn her glorious chestnut hair in a knot on her neck. Today she had wrapped it fashionably higher and wore her little straw boater stylishly straight. He thought he had never seen a more beautiful woman, or one with finer skin or longer lashes.

  She didn't look up from the battered pit man. The way she wrung her hands and bit her lips displayed a tender nature that he found endearingthough he wished she would direct a bit more of her anxiety in his direction rather than toward his adversary. She kept murmuring, "Oh, dear, oh, dear," and tears hung on her dark lashes.

  "I've thought about you constantly," he confessed in a rush. "You don't know how many times I've berated myself for not asking your name." She dashed at the tears in her eyes, then twisted her gloves together and continued to murmur over the man beginning to stir at their feet.

  "It's Lucie Kolska," she said quickly. Her blush reminded him of an Irish rose. But he didn't understand the anguish constricting her expression.

  "Miss Kolska, if you feel" He had never been good at this sort of thing. And it had never been as important before. "That is, with your permission I would very much like to call on you. May I?"

  The blush intensified in her cheeks and so did her agitation. She peeked at him through that incredible sweep of lashes. Leaning toward her he tried to read her expression, hoping for a hint of encouragement. Instead, moisture welled in her eyes and she looked on the edge of weeping. Her hands laced together and rose to her breast.

  "You will have to obtain my brother's permission," she murmured, biting an adorable lip. To his astonishment she knelt beside the pit man and reached a trembling finger to the bruise blossoming on his jaw.

  "Of course." A terrible suspicion formed in his mind. He blinked down at the man at his feet. No. Fate would not be that cruel. "Where may I find your brother, Miss Kolska?" he asked slowl
y, dreading the answer.

  She glanced up at his bloodied knuckles, then gently placed her hand on the pit man's cheek. "Here," she whispered. "Oh, Mr. Kelly. How could you do this?"

  Jamie stared at the battered man struggling to sit up. A string of swear words sped through his mind.

  "I'm sorry, sir," she said stiffly. Moisture glistened in her eyes. "But I doubt Stefan will allow you to call. And and I could not agree to it, either."

  Stunned, he stared down at her. What had he done? Suddenly everything had changed. He knew he had not imagined the pleasure Softening her eyes when he first saw her again.

  She had been as elated to see him as he had been to see her. Even now, behind her distress, behind her loyalty to her brother, he thought he recognized a glimmer of regret.

  "Miss Kolska," Jamie said, wetting his cracked lip. "There's an explanation for this. Please believe me, I did not choose to fight your brother."

  Stefan Kolska was rapidly regaining his senses and he would awaken to the sight of his adversary earnestly entreating his sister's forgiveness, lost in the depths of her dark eyes.

  "I think you should leave, Mr. Kelly," she said in a low voice, looking away from him.

  Watching Kolska from the corner of his eye, he buttoned his waistcoat and pushed aching arms into his coat sleeves. "If you'll just allow me a moment to explain." The accusation in her gaze devastated him when she lifted her head. "I must see you again, Miss Kolska."

  Her cheeks burned fiery red and he stared at her, memorizing her face, wanting to caress that gentle heat. Now that he had found her again, he couldn't bring himself to leave her.

  "If I was you, Kelly," Gustoffer said from behind him. "I'd do a stamp. I wouldn't be standing here when Kolska gets up."

  The look in Lucie Kolska's eyes agreed, urged him to depart. "Tell her this was your idea, Gustoffer." She had to understand he had not created the situation. "For heaven's sake, man, explain what happened," he implored Gustoffer, stepping backward, watching her bend over Kolska. Gustoffer regarded him as if he were a madman.

  Before the Broadway crowds blotted her from sight, she glanced up, sorrow and anger drawing her expression.

  Jamie cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted to Gustoffer. "Tell her!" If she was the woman he wanted her to be, she would forgive him once she learned: the truth of the matter. He halt to depend on that as it was all he had.

  The man who sold him a shovel peered at him across the high sales counter. "Good Lord, man. What happened to you?"

  Jamie smiled, feeling his lip crack open again. "I found a job and a girl." Gingerly, he touched his jaw. "There's a problem or two, but this is one of the best days of my life!"

  The salesman inspected his slitted eyes and bleeding lip, then laughed. "That must be some girl, mister. If she did that to you on the best day of your life, I'd advise you never to make her mad."

  It hurt to laugh. It hurt to move. Smiling, Jamie hefted the shovel in his hand, hoping to hell he could live up to his promise to Gustoffer. Then he counted out a nickel and a twopenny piece, lifted his cap to the salesman and strolled outside as if he were a regular brownstoner, as if he didn't have a care in the world.

  What he wanted most was a bath, a bed and a plate of good Irish crubbeens. Since he had money for none of it, he washed at a horse trough, bought a penny cup of ginger pop and walked toward the bowery in search of a hammock in a doss house, swinging the shovel like a walking stick.

  Come morning he knew he would feel as if he had been run over by a furniture van, but right now he felt as fit as a gold coach. He had found her again and she was as beautiful as he remembered. By all the saints, his fortunes were on the rise.

  For two weeks Stefan had worried and fretted that Lucie might not like Greta or that Greta might not like Lucie. He need not have suffered a moment of concern. On the Sunday afternoon he brought Greta to the Elizabeth Street tenement, the two young women took one look at each other, then fell on each other with hugs and kisses and tears of happiness. What Stefan had overlooked was their need for the companionship of someone their own age and sex; Each woman was lonely for family and for someone with whom to share the small secrets of life.

  He sat at the head of the table, almost forgotten, nodding, beaming and listening with pride and pleasure as the two young women established a bond that would be lifelong.

  Lucie refilled their glasses with lemonade she had made for the occasion. "I can't thank you enough for the geranium," she said, looking at the much needed splash of color on the window sill. "I only hope it will grow. There's isn't much direct sun."

  Greta's sweet smile lit the room. "I can't grow anything where I live, so I've claimed your windowsill for my garden. It's good to see the green."

  "Between us, we'll coax it to grow. But if the geranium fails, perhaps you will make us a bouquet of artificial flowers. Stefan says you make beautiful silk flowers for hats and gowns."

  A modest blush of pleasure warmed Greta's rounded cheeks. "I learned at the factory." She started to reach for the glass of lemonade, then changed her mind and dropped her hand to her lap beneath the table. "I asked Mr. Church if he would consider you as a replacement for Mrs. DeVriesMrs. DeVries has taken illbut the position had already been filled."

  It didn't surprise Lucie that Greta had tried to help her before they even met. One had only to spend five minutes in Greta Laskowski's company to know the young woman possessed a kind and generous heart. When Lucie apologized that saving her passage money had delayed Greta's marriage, Greta placed her hand on Lucie's cheek and gently hushed her. "I long to marry our Stefan, but Stefan and I have the rest of our lives to be together," she said. "It was important that you come to America."

  As the afternoon progressed they happily discovered a dozen points of compatibility. More than anything else, each yearned for a husband and hearth and fat healthy children under foot. Both enjoyed sewing, wished there were more time for it, and each missed working with the soil.

  "In good years the turnips were this big," Lucie said, making a circle with her hands and winking.

  Greta laughed, the sound reminding Lucie of tiny chiming bells. "No, no, this big." Forgetting herself she raised her hands to make a circle and Lucie saw the angry red rash she had tried to conceal. When Greta noticed the direction of Lucie's gaze, a flush of embarrassment tinted her cheeks. "It's so ugly, isn't it?" she murmured, dropping her hands to her lap.

  "What causes it?" Lucie asked, moving around the table to take Greta's hand in her own.

  "Several women at the factory have similar rashes. Mrs. Klepke believes something in the paper and silk causes it. Miss Iverson believes it's not the materials but the dyes. Mrs. Ryan blames the dust that comes off the dyes." She raised her gaze to Lucie. "Mr. Church complains that too many of us are ill too often, but he says it has nothing to do with the factory."

  "I'm not sure I believe that." The worried frown above Stefan's blackened eyes made him look as fierce as a cossack. He rubbed a hand over the bruise on his jaw. "You weren't sick before you started working at the factory."

  "I don't understand it," Greta admitted, rubbing the rash on her hand and wrist. "But I can't think that paper or silk or dust could hurt anyone. That's bunkum." She laughed at Lucie's raised eyebrows. "Bunkum is American for nonsense."

  "I make a cream that might soothe the roughness," Lucie said, rising. "It's my own recipe." She fetched a twist of newspaper from her shelf in the sleeping room, opened it, and gently rubbed the emollient over Greta's rash.

  "It feels better already," Greta assured her. "And the scent is lovely." The two women smiled at each other.

  Later they worked together to singe and pluck the two hens Lucie had purchased for the occasion. While they worked Lucie told Greta about her lessons at the nearby settlement house and Greta told her about the people she lived with. They discussed hairstyles and fashions and which markets were cheapest and how best to travel from here to there.

  "You shou
ldn't have gone to this expense," Greta said when the hens were prepared for roasting.

  "It isn't everyday that I meet Stefan's betrothed and discover a new sister."

  "Dearest Lucie, I'm so glad I found you." Greta's eyes filled with tears. "With no family and" She lowered her eyes. "Sometimes it's been so lonely." Distress filled her eyes. "I don't mean that Stefan has not been wonderful, I assure you he has. Stefan is the most wonderful man in the world! It's just that"

  "Sometimes we need a sister."

  "Yes! That is it exactly." She took Lucie's hands. "Now I have you and everything is perfect!"

  Lucie decided if she had chosen Stefan's bride herself, she could not have chosen better than Greta Laskowski. Greta's gentle temperament would soften Stefan's impatience. Her utter belief in him would sustain her brother when dreams seemed far away. Instinctively Lucie knew Greta would keep a good house and be a fine mother to Stefan's children.

  Plus, she was lovely. Greta had hair as golden as sunshine and eyes of a deeper, purer blue than any Lucie had observed. Her mouth was small but full and constantly smiling. She was the same height as Lucie but fuller figured, which Lucie admired. If it hadn't been for the slight puffiness left from her recent illness, Greta Laskowski would have been breathtakingly beautiful. It was no wonder Stefan gazed at her with such pride and adoration.

  Because roasting the hens transformed the kitchen into an oven, Stefan carried their chairs to the rooftop and they took their plates upstairs into the air to eat. The rooftop was crowded and noisy, but they had the pleasure of watching a brilliant sunset as the dying sun slipped behind the taller buildings to the west.

  "You see, Stefan," Greta said softly, touching his hand, "we don't have to spend money to have beauty in our lives. A geranium on the windowsill and a lovely sunset"

  "You deserve more," Stefan said gruffly. "I promise, someday you will have a home of your own, and you won't make flowers for other people, you'll wear them yourself!"