City of Orphans

by Avi

  “Please, sir, I don’t know what to do.”

  “Then you’re no different from everybody else in this wretched city! My hands are not so much tied as they are empty. The poet said, ‘Mercy has a human heart.’ What he should have written is, ‘Money is the human heart.’ Now get out! If I had any strength, I’d throw you out.”

  Donck yanks the tube from his ear and flings himself back into his arms. The only sound in the room is his rattling breath.

  After a moment Willa goes up to him, hesitates, and then pokes him with her stick.

  Donck jerks up and shoves the tube back into his ear. Glares at Willa. “Did you just hit me?”

  “You don’t have to help us!” Willa shouts. “Just tell us what to do.”

  “What the devil does that mean?”

  “We know all about detectives,” says Willa.

  “How could you?”

  “Because,” she says, “we read a story called The Bradys and the Missing Diamonds.”

  Donck’s jaw drops. His face turns red, he coughs, struggles to speak, then manages, his mouth full of pink spittle, to shout, “Poppycock! Utter poppycock!”

  “If you could just tell us how to start, we could do it,” Willa says.

  Breathing heavily, wiping his lips, Donck considers Willa balefully. “Why are you carrying that stick?”

  “In case we’re attacked.”

  “By whom?”

  “A gang,” says Maks. “The Plug Uglies.”

  “Have they attacked you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m a newsie, sir,” says Maks. “They wanted my money. Willa saved me.”

  “Did she?” Donck stares at Willa again and takes a deep, clotted breath. “Lucky you,” he mutters. Then, “Did you truly believe that . . . that story you read?”

  “It was written by a detective,” Maks says. “A city detective.”

  “It’s nonsense!” cries Donck. “Garbage!”

  His shouting exhausts him. Takes a few moments of heavy breathing before he says, “Why haven’t your parents come?”

  Maks says, “They . . . they don’t know how.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “They’re new to America.”

  “Immigrants?”

  Maks nods. “Don’t understand the way things are done here.”

  “Do you?”

  “I was born here,” says Willa.

  “And being birthed on this soil and having read that stupid story, you have—what? Wisdom?”

  “Please, sir,” says Maks, “I’m just trying to help my sister.”

  “The truth is,” cries Donck, “nobody denies they are immigrants more often than the children of immigrants! And you immigrant children are all orphans with parents. Pha! It’s a city of orphans!”

  Donck flings his hearing tube down and, grabbing a rosewood cane, heaves himself up. Unsteady on his feet, he moves to the window. Using his ragged sleeve, he rubs the glass with shaky fingers, smearing grime away till he makes a lopsided circle. He peers into the dark street.

  “I believe,” he says—his back to Maks and Willa—“there are more wretched children on these streets than any other of the species. My Lord,” he suddenly shouts, “the question before the heavenly court today is this: Do You wish any children to survive in this miserable city, this—this city of orphans?”

  Maks and Willa stare at him.

  Donck stays by the window, looking out, coughing, his body jolting.

  “My sister coughs a lot too,” says Maks.

  Donck turns, lurches toward his desk, and snatches up his listening tube. “What did you say?”

  “My sister coughs a lot.”

  “The sister in jail?”

  “A different one.”

  “Consumption!” Donck yells. “Wasting disease! Tuber-culosis! The cure, expensive, if it works. Each year,” he shouts, “thousands in this filthy city die of it. Each month. Each week. Each day! Annually, this city has more than a million cases of illness. Smallpox! Diphtheria! Typhoid! Tuberculosis! I’m no exception. You are petitioning a doomed man!” He glares at Maks and Willa with bleary eyes, as if they were coming to bring him death.

  Donck shuts his eyes, breathes deeply, raggedly. “If I were to teach you my skills,” he says, “would you willingly become lawyer and detective for the thousands of children in this shameful city?”

  “Yes, sir,” says Willa.

  “With your bludgeon,” Donck sneers, “with which you so rudely struck me? So that when children come looking for relations who have abandoned or abused them, you could beat their oppressors?”

  “What’s an oppressor?” Maks asks.

  “God protect the ignorant!” yells Donck. “Is your goal to starve along with me?”

  “I don’t eat much,” says Willa.

  “And I just want to help my sister,” Maks pleads.

  The kids wait.

  “You!” Donck suddenly cries, pointing two fingers right at Maks. “This morning. On the steps of The Tombs, you stared at me.”

  Taken by surprise, Maks can only nod.

  “What,” demands Dock, “was I carrying in my hands?”

  “Your hands?”

  “Are you, too, deaf?”

  With Donck and Willa staring at him, Maks thinks furiously. “Nothing . . . in . . . your hands,” he stammers, hoping he’s right. “Two books tucked . . . under your arms. The books were stuffed with papers.”

  The only noise in the room is Donck’s breathing.

  “Good,” Donck finally mutters. “Very good. You have eyes that see. Very well,” he cries. “Why not? This is America. The New World. The noble experiment. Supposedly God’s country. Pha! My Dutch ancestors began this city. It’s time I was replaced. A new century comes soon to haul away my wretched carcass. When that moment arrives, you’ll be of age. But I—I, Bartleby Donck—shall be dead. Dumped into a pauper’s grave. The uncommon man sunk into the common city clay.”

  He drops into his chair.

  “Sir,” says Maks cautiously, “you saying you’ll help us?”

  “Do you wish to know why? Because you believed that pathetic story you read! I have an obligation to my profession to guide you from the pathetic influence of that junk. Besides, I admire loyal women,” Donck says, looking at Willa. Looking at Maks, he says, “You seem able to use your eyes.

  “Therefore!” cries Donck, pointing a dirty, fat finger at Maks, “you can be my farewell gift to this doomed city. A boy detective! Pha!”

  35

  Donck coughs a few more times. “All right,” he says, aiming his listening tube at Maks. “Tell me what happened to your sister. All you know.”

  When Maks tells Donck what Emma told him, the detective listens, coughing now and then, wheezing, but saying nothing till Maks is done, which don’t take long.

  “Is that all?”

  “What she told me.”

  “To summarize,” says Donck, “your sister was accused of stealing a gold watch. This occurred at that new Waldorf Hotel, where she works. She denies she took it. But the watch was found beneath her pillow. Conclusive evidence, I should say. Not surprisingly, she’s arrested, put in jail. Everything correct?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “Wasn’t the watch they found. Just the chain.”

  For the first time Donck smiles. “Ah! Good. You can listen, too. Have you been to the Waldorf?”

  “Walked my sister there.”

  “It’s new. Cost four million Astor dollars to build. Not merely big, colossal. Thirteen stories with more than five hundred rooms. A thousand servants, of whom your sister was but one. She was—is—always will be replaceable. What else do you know about the Waldorf?”

  “My sister told me rich people stay there.”

  “Rich? Pha! They claim only the best people patronize the establishment. The Waldorf is the most elegant hotel in New York. In America. The world, perhaps. Dear G
od, the rooms even have their own bathrooms. They wouldn’t use people like you and me for doormats. What did your sister do there?”

  “Cleaned rooms.”

  “How lucky for her. Her name?”

  “Emma. Emma Geless.”

  “Emma Geless.” After dipping his pen in his ink bottle, Donck writes the name on a scrap of paper. For a few moments he stares at it, coughing.

  Maks says, “Can you help her, sir?”

  Donck holds up a fat, flat, and dirty hand. “Advice only! You, the boy detective, will do the work. I’ve work to do. Return tomorrow. Same time. Now get out.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  36

  Willa and Maks step out to the street. Willa says, “I didn’t understand half the things he said. Did you?”

  Maks shakes his head. “Pretty strange. Sure ain’t no money-spinner.”

  Willa says, “Think he’ll really help?”

  Maks shrugs. “Don’t know what else to do. But it’s hard shouting at him.”

  “He thought I was your sister.”

  “Don’t mind.”

  “He’s pretty sick,” says Willa. “All that coughing and spitting blood. My mother was like that. Before she died. I think it’s what Agnes has.”

  “Agnes don’t cough that much.”

  “She should go to a doctor.”

  Maks says, “My parents are saving for it. But . . . now . . .”

  They stand for a while, gazing on the crowded street, until Maks says, “Come on. We better get home.”

  “Can we go to my alley first?”

  “How come?”

  “I need to get something.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see.”

  37

  Willa and Maks make their way through evening crowds of men and women, factory and office workers. Though people look tired, laughter can be heard as peddlers and pushcart dealers cry out last goods. When night falls, so do prices.

  As they go along, Willa and Maks don’t talk much. Willa is lost in her thoughts.

  Maks is thinking ’bout Donck, how odd the mug was and wondering if he can teach him anything that’ll free Emma. He’s also worrying on the next day. He needs to bring Mama to Emma. Gotta tell his sister he’s getting her help. Same time, he ain’t so sure if he should tell his parents ’bout Donck. Not certain they’ll like his going to a detective.

  Don’t take too long to reach Willa’s alley. Some streetlight seeps in, making it look like a hallway to nowhere. Save for the same old smelly garbage, it’s deserted.

  They step in, Maks holding Willa’s stick while she climbs the fence. When she’s gone, Maks can’t help thinking of her living in the place. He’s glad she’s coming to Birmingham Street.

  When Willa pops back up, he’s surprised by what she brings: a small blue tin box, the kind in which candy comes. And an old doll.

  The doll’s head is chipped hard china, yellowish white, with only one glass eye and a floppy cloth body. Its dress is tattered.

  “I got it when I was a little girl,” Willa says. She’s clutching the doll and box tightly, as if they’re important. The box rattles.

  “What’s in there?” Maks asks.

  “Show you later.”

  They start walking back down the alley, Maks still holding Willa’s stick.

  Next second, Bruno, derby cocked back on his head, lit cigar in hand, is standing at the entrance. He’s blocking their way.

  38

  Willa and Maks are too scared to move.

  As for Bruno, he don’t do nothing but stand there, grinning, puffing his cigar. The cigar’s ash glow makes his red hair shine, lights the tips of his ears. His squinty eye seems to glint with glee.

  Maks thinks of the devil.

  “Hey, Maks mug!” Bruno calls. “Still got that skinny girl protectin’ yous?”

  Maks moves Willa’s stick so Bruno can see it.

  “Just so yous understand,” says Bruno, “I knows where yous live. Knows where yous sell your stupid papers. So me and my guys are watching. Pretty soon, we’re gonna catch yous cold and plunk yous down dead. And when we do, we’re gonna get your girlfriend, too. Soak the street with your blood. Both of yous.”

  Then he gives a fake horselaugh, steps out of the alley, and is gone.

  Willa and Maks—she’s clutching her doll and box, he’s finding it hard to breathe, heart beating wildly—are afraid to move. They wait for something to happen, but nothing does, so it seems Bruno is really gone.

  Maks gives a sigh. Says, “We ain’t never gonna be rid of him.”

  Willa don’t say nothing. Just stands there, looking down.

  Maks takes a deep breath. “Come on,” he says. “We need to get home. But you don’t have to come with me if you don’t want.”

  Willa spins on him, face full of fury. Starts to speak but can’t. ’Stead, she turns and faces the wooden fence.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” says Maks. “How come I’m always saying something wrong?”

  Willa shakes her head.

  “Is it Bruno? Come on. I was goosefleshy too.”

  Willa just looks at him.

  “Hey, you gotta tell me what it is.”

  Not moving, Willa says, “Don’t . . . don’t you want me to go back to your house?”

  “Hey, sure I do,” says Maks. “We’re pals, ain’t we? Only saying you don’t have to be part of this mess. It was me who put you in it. I mean, it’s me Bruno’s after.”

  “It’s me, too!” she yells.

  “Okay, sure.”

  “You want me to come or not?”

  “Honest, my mother said you should.”

  Willa faces him. “What do you think? You never say.”

  “No? Really? Thought I did. Look, we’re gonna do this together, ain’t we? My sister . . . Bruno . . . all of it.”

  “But what . . . what if we can’t?” Willa cries. “What if he does what he says? Or we can’t help your sister? Or what if . . . if we can’t do anything? I don’t want to stay here anymore. I hate it! And . . . and I’m scared! I’m really scared.” She stands there, sobbing.

  Maks, full of his own misery, says, “Come on, Willa, don’t know what else to do. We gotta try, right? Maybe that Donck guy will help. But if you and me don’t do it together, it’s gotta be worse. What I think. Honest. Come on.”

  Willa, her crying less, just looks at him.

  Maks says, “We gonna be friends, right?”

  Willa leans back against the fence. “Okay,” she says, voice easier, stealing a look at Maks to be sure that he’s still there. That she hasn’t chased him away. Next moment, she jumps forward. “Did I get my dress dirty?” she says, showing him her back.

  A few smudges, but Maks says, “Nothing really.”

  “Will your mama be mad? She likes everything clean.”

  “Willa, it’s the city. Even the stinking air is dirty. Mama knows. Come on. Let’s get home and eat. I’m starving.” He takes a step toward the street.

  Willa holds back. “You really sure you want me there?”

  “How many times I have to say it?”

  “There are so many people in your—”

  “Hey, a few months ago, we had my uncle, aunt, and their five kids when they came over. All kinds of relatives come. People from our old town just show up.”

  “Where do they sleep?”

  Maks shrugs. “Always find room. Come on.”

  Willa takes a deep breath. “I need to show you something first.”

  “What?”

  “Not here.”

  “Fine,” Maks says, glad she’s coming, glad to get out of the alley.

  39

  The kids look up and down Chrystie Street. It’s dark, but far as they can tell, Bruno ain’t there.

  Maks whispers, “Think we’re okay.”

  “I need a place with light,” says Willa. “Not the street.”

  They walk along, not talking, till Maks turns toward a small saloon.
“This’ll work.”

  The saloon—a sign names it THE BOTTOMS—sits at the base of a tenement. Like most city drums, it’s a dingy room with a little stand-up bar and a few bottles. A gas jet in a blue glass globe hangs from the ceiling, its light somehow making the smoky gloom darker. On one wall there’s a lopsided picture of the president, Grover Cleveland. On the wooden floor—sprinkled with dirty sawdust—sits a brass spittoon near a potted rubber plant with large, glossy, yellow-tinged leaves.

  Only a few small tables with some people sitting and smoking. One guy drinking. Others just talking. A lady—her hat tipped down over her face—asleep in her chair.

  The barkeep stands behind the bar. He’s a big fat guy with a black beard and top hat. His name is Otis. Maks knows him ’cause he and his family live next to his tenement. Emma used to mind his kids.

  “Hey there, Mr. Maks,” Otis calls out in a deep voice when Maks and Willa walk in. “How you doing? How’re the folks? How’s Emma?”

  “Fine,” says Maks. “Okay if me and my friend sit and talk?”

  “Make yourself at home. Who’s the lady?”

  “Willa. She’s living with us now.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Willa. Friend of Maks, friend of mine. Want something to drink?” He throws a wink.

  Maks shakes his head, goes to a corner table, and sits. Willa takes the opposite chair, sets her blue box on the table. Checks to see if anyone is near. Satisfied no one is, she sets her china-face doll on her lap so the doll’s eye is just above tabletop level.

  Maks says, “Your doll is staring at me.”

  Willa, her voice small, gives a little smile. “She likes you.”

  “She got a name?” Maks says.

  “Gretchen. My mother gave her to me.”

  “Pleased to meetcha, Gretchen.”

  Willa holds up her doll. Though the doll don’t have no hands, just cloth stumps, Maks shakes one.

  Putting the doll back on her lap, Willa draws the tin box closer to her, as if to hug it. Maks hears that slight rattle.

  Willa, eyes fixed on box, strokes the tin top with her fingers. Slowly, she eases up the top on its hinge, swings it toward Maks so he can’t see what’s inside.

  Reaching into the box, Willa picks up a photograph glued to a thick piece of cardboard. She holds the card carefully in two hands, stares at it. Then she sets it on the table in front of Maks, turning it round so he can see what it is.