A Proper Pursuit (44 page)

“No, I don’t mind. I’m grateful that you came with us.” I paused to swallow the lump in my throat and wipe a tear.

“I’d really like to help you find your mother, Violet. I sure hated seeing a classy lady like you in place like that. I think you were very courageous for venturing there—foolish, perhaps, but courageous just the same.”

“I knew you could protect us, seeing as you carry a gun and—”

“A gun?” he asked in surprise. I clapped my hand over my mouth. How had I let it slip out?

“I saw it in your pocket the other day when we met on LaSalle Street,” I explained. “And if I’m not mistaken, it’s in your pocket today too.”

“You mean this?” I shrank back as he reached inside his jacket. He pulled out something and laid it on my lap.

“It’s … it’s a harmonica! I feel so foolish.”

“No, you made an honest mistake. I’ll wager most people would agree that a mouth organ is an unusual thing to carry around.”

“Good thing we weren’t in any danger,” I said, exhaling.

“Well, if we had been, I could have played a jig for the rogues before they robbed us.” Silas scooped up the harmonica and played a few bars of “Yankee Doodle.” I couldn’t help laughing.

“You’re lucky nobody stole it from you in that neighborhood.”

He shrugged, as if money wasn’t an issue. I wondered if Silas had stolen the harmonica to begin with.

“Well, thanks again for taking me.”

“I admire you a great deal, Violet. You were amazingly brave in there. Now, do you want to explain to me what that was all about?”

“I’m trying to find my mother.”

“I know that.”

“All I have are a bunch of clues, and I’m trying to connect them. I’ve read hundreds of detective stories—but this is so much harder. My family is so secretive. All I know is that my father used to travel to Chicago to the Jolly Roger for his brother Philip’s sake. I’m guessing that O’Neill saved Philip’s life during the war, which is why my father tried to help him. Even if O’Neill was a drunkard who may have beat his wife, my father probably brought him home to Lockport for Philip’s sake.”

“That sure makes a great story. Too bad there’s no way to find out if it’s true. Is this Philip guy missing too? Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Philip is away, fighting in the war,” Aunt Birdie said. “My husband, Gilbert, is fighting too. He’s quite determined to help free all of the slaves.” Silas smiled at her and patted her hand.

“You know,” Silas said, “if this O’Neill had only one leg, I can see where he might have taken a tumble down the cellar stairs— especially if he was drunk. Cellar steps are usually pretty narrow and steep. Maybe his wife didn’t murder him after all.”

“Oh. I see what you mean.” I didn’t know whether to be happy about that conclusion or not. It meant that my father was innocent, but it also meant that Maude was too. I would have to find another way to stop their marriage.

“How does your mother tie into all of this?” Silas asked.

“I guess she doesn’t,” I admitted. “Aunt Birdie told me that Philip knew her, so I thought—”

“Philip loved the theater too,” Aunt Birdie said.

“Are you sure my mother didn’t go to the theater with my father?” I asked.

“Certainly not! Your father is dead set against theaters and saloons and all those other worldly amusements. Just like his father is.”

“I hate to be the one to suggest this,” Silas said carefully, “but is it possible that your mother and Philip … you know … that we’ll find them in the same place when we finally find them?”

I gasped. “You think they ran off together?”

He shrugged. “It happens.”

“No … no, I-I can’t believe that!”

Silas laid his hand on my arm. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It was a wild thought… . It’s just that they’re both missing and … Just forget I brought it up, okay?”

But it explained why no one would discuss either one of them. I didn’t want to believe something so scandalous could happen in my family, that one brother would steal the other brother’s wife. Most of all, I didn’t want to believe that my mother would choose to leave me behind in order to run away with my uncle. I preferred to believe what Aunt Matt had told me:
“Philip has nothing to do with finding
your mother.”

I was quiet for the remainder of the ride home, thinking about my parents and everything I had learned. I wished I had never raised the ugly suspicion that my father and Maude had killed Lloyd O’Neill. I wished I had never heard of Uncle Philip. I had been much better off believing that my mother had left me because she was ill.

If only my father had lied to me at Maude O’Neill’s house. If only he had told me that my mother was dead.

Chapter

30

Tuesday, July 11, 1893

V
iolet Rose? You’re up early again,” my grandmother said when I appeared at breakfast the next day.

“I’m meeting Louis down at the settlement house this morning.”

“He’s such a fine young man. And already like a son to me.” She looked so pleased and so hopeful. I felt guilty for misleading her. But maybe I would fall madly in love with Louis as he gallantly helped me search for my mother. Things like that happened sometimes in romance novels.

Louis had arrived at the settlement house even earlier than I had, and he’d begun asking questions to find out which of the Bohemian women would be our best source of information. Everyone at the settlement house adored Louis, and I saw how indispensable he was. Miss Dow wanted him to help with the kindergarten children again. Magda said he was needed in the kitchen. Miss McPhee had a list of repairs she hoped he could attend to. If only I liked him as much as they did.

“Another day,” he told them all. “I promised Miss Hayes I would help her. Are you ready?” he asked me. I nodded, dreading the walk outside.

“Is it far? Where are we going?”

“I have the address of the woman who helped organize all the food and the dancing on Folk Night. She’s sort of the matriarch of the Bohemian community. I’m told that she knows all of the families.”

We walked several blocks south, then wove through a warren of back alleys and side streets to a cluster of tenement buildings similar to Irina’s. The four-story brick structures were built right up against each other in the shape of a U, with a bleak patch of dirt for a courtyard. More brick tenements towered across the alley and stretched down the block, until there was no way that fresh air or a cooling breeze could penetrate the apartments.

Children swarmed all over the place, tussling in the dirt, leaning from open windows, playing on the landings and on the open-backed wooden stairs that led up the outside of the structure to each floor. The children reminded me of myself at that age, with their dusky skin and dark curly hair, but I glimpsed sorrow and hopelessness in their expressions in spite of their playful laughter. I recalled Louis saying that for many of these people, the reality of life in America had not lived up to their dreams.

Back home in Lockport, children like Horrid and Homely could spend the hot summer days playing in Dellwood Park, where there were trees and grass and a refreshing breeze from the canal.

“The woman we’re looking for lives up on the fourth floor,” Louis said, pointing to the rickety wooden stairs. “Are you ready to climb?”

I could feel the steps wobbling and the handrail shaking as I began to ascend. The stairs were so steep—and there were so many of them—that I had to stop for breath on every landing, even though I was in a hurry to escape the neighborhood’s horrid smells. The door to the Bohemian woman’s apartment stood open, and she and her children recognized Louis immediately.

“Is good to see you, Louis. Come in, come in. You are always so kind to help all the people. So kind.” She motioned us inside. The apartment was clean but cramped and crammed with too many beds. A very old woman with skin like crumpled paper sat in a wooden chair by the window.

“Thank you,” Louis said. “Do you know Mrs. Hayes who works in the soup kitchen with me, ma’am?”

“Yes, yes, of course. She is a kind woman.”

“This is her granddaughter, Violet Hayes. She wants to ask you some questions about the Bohemian community, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, yes, I try to answer. But you must sit down, please.” She pulled out two splintery chairs from beneath the kitchen table. “Let me fix you something,” she said, opening a crude wooden cupboard beside the stove.

“We really don’t need anything,” I said. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, yes, you are my guests. It is important to give you … how do you say it? To make you at home.” She removed a greasy, cheeseclothwrapped lump and set in on a cutting board.

“I’m really not hungry—” I began, but Louis elbowed me.

“It’s rude to refuse,” he whispered. “These people have so little, and they are honoring us by offering it.”

She unwrapped the cloth to reveal a jiggling lump of headcheese, just like the one they had served us on Folk Night. Our hostess sliced off two sizeable pieces, carefully transferring them to two mismatched plates, then set them in front of us. My stomach flipped like a pancake. I was certain that my portion contained an eyeball.

“Excuse, please, while I get water for tea.” She lifted a kettle from the stove and disappeared through the door.

“I don’t think I can eat this,” I whispered to Louis. “Can’t we tell her I’m allergic?”

He looked horrified. “We can’t
lie
, Violet.”

The meat was every bit as slimy and gelatinous as the dish they’d served on Folk Night, with varying-sized chunks of things imbedded in it. My choosing game had sprung to life. I was living one of my questions:
If you had to choose between eating something disgusting in
order to find your mother, or refusing to eat it and never seeing her again,
which would you choose?
The next time Ruth Schultz asked about the most disgusting thing I’d ever eaten, I would win the prize.

I reminded myself that I had eaten snails at Madame Beauchamps’. This was no worse, was it? I could always just gulp it down without chewing or tasting it. But in retrospect, the slippery garlic butter had helped expedite the snail’s passage down my throat. Garlic can disguise the most obnoxious of flavors.

I decided against gulping down the headcheese. If I finished it too quickly my hostess might offer me more. She returned with the kettle of water and proceeded to brew tea for us. The finished concoction smelled and tasted as though she had used a clump of weeds from alongside the road instead of real tea leaves.

“I’m trying to find my mother,” I began, swallowing the first tiny nibble of meat. “She was Bohemian, I believe. Her maiden name was Cepak. Angeline Cepak. Do you know any other families in this neighborhood by that name?”

“No, I cannot think of any. But I have heard this family name in the old country. Is not so unusual there.”

I swallowed a second bite along with my disappointment. “Do you know of any other places in the city where other Bohemian families live? Or do you know someone else I might ask?”

“No, I know only the families around here. I am sorry.”

“How long ago did you immigrate to Chicago? Were you here during the Great Fire?”

“No, we are coming here nine years ago. I am sorry I am not helping you find your mother. I wish I could. When did you lose her?”

“Eleven years ago.” I ate a third bite and chased it down with a sip of tea. Both tasted terrible.

I had to think! What other clues had I gathered about my mother? Aunt Birdie kept mentioning that she’d loved the theater— but my aunt often got her stories mixed up. Was it possible that my mother
worked
in the theater as an actress instead of merely attending the shows? I knew she had loved to dance. I took a chance. I had nothing to lose.

“Have you heard of anyone named Cepak who worked in the theater? An actress, maybe? Or a dancer?”

“No, I don’t think so… .”

All of a sudden the little old grandmother in the corner began talking a mile a minute in another language. She pointed to me and gestured with her twig-like hands as she talked.

“What is she saying?” I asked.

“My husband’s mother says there are Cepaks in the old country who are married with gypsies. They are thieves.” She turned to her mother-in-law and said loudly, “They cannot be her family. She is nice girl.” The old woman babbled even louder, waving her arms.

“What did she say? Please tell me.”

“She said in America the gypsies perform in the shows. But it cannot be the family you look for. The shows are … how do you say? … Not so nice.” She lowered her gaze, brushing crumbs off the table.

I knew that the old woman was talking about burlesque shows, not the legitimate theater or even vaudeville. The thought made me feel ill. But then, I already felt queasy from the headcheese and bitter tea. I choked down the last bite of meat and stood.

“Thank you so much for your help,” I said. “We need to be going.” I wondered if I should offer to pay her for the information the way Silas McClure had paid the bartender.

Louis took my arm to help me down the steep flight of stairs. My head reeled from the heat and from this new information.