All for a Story (40 page)

He called out three of the men, none of the women. Every muscle in Monica’s body protested as she shifted her weight, making her feel old. Everything about today made her feel old. That empty house. The way she’d left the train station wanting nothing more than a plate of stew and a good night’s sleep. The fact that she could sit here now and think about Max like he was some long-lost love.

And here she was, not yet one-and-twenty.

She may not have a home of her own, but as of today, she had money to buy one. She could find a new job, a new town, a new guy. Or none of those. She could go to college, or Paris, or South America —someplace warm.

She could write. That little bundle of stories belonged to a girl who wanted to be a writer. Now she was just a girl who made a joke of herself with her words. Maybe she could buy a cabin in Maine or a flat in London. Or California. Max had said she’d like it there. Everything was new, he’d said. Fresh. Fast. Perfect for a flirty girl. He didn’t know she had this old soul.

Then again, he didn’t know she was ready for a new one, either. And maybe, when he found out, it wouldn’t be too late to ask for his forgiveness.

Those Meeks squeaks, again. And this time he called her name. She had to lift her head from the tunnel she’d created with her coat collar and ask to hear it again.

“Monica Bisbaine. Right?”

Her cellmates echoed with “monkey girl” while Monica, muscles aching with cold and bones popping, unfolded herself from the floor. She ignored them. Two more minutes and she’d never see any of them again.

As she and Meeks passed the men’s cell, she heard Charlie call out —“Monica, Mousie, sweetheart” —but she looked straight ahead at the back of Meeks’s neck.

The cold went with her, seeped into her legs, her back, and places in between. She may have been walking with the gait of a crippled old woman, but it was the heart of a little girl beating within her. She didn’t want to face Mrs. Kinship, but she did want to go home. And after that, like any good child grown up, she wanted to go away.

Don’t annex all the men you can get —by flirting with many, you may lose out on the one.

ANTI-FLIRT CLUB RULE #7

MRS. KINSHIP’S KITCHEN MONEY burned in his pocket. It might be the price to be paid for Monica’s crime; he just wished he could be the one to pay it. After all, he’d played some role in the crime’s commission. Had he tempered his kiss, had he censored his love, had he simply accepted an invitation for a dinner of beef stew, he might be walking away from her house under very different circumstances. Or maybe, given the coziness of the parlor, he might still be there.

It was quite a distance from the house to the station, but the only alternative was to ask Mrs. Kinship for car fare. He prayed with each step, asking God to protect Monica with every breath, both coming quicker and quicker as he closed in. He’d never been to the police station before, of course, and he’d never come close
to seeing a jail cell. In his mind, Monica was cold and small, huddled in a dark corner, prodded and mistreated by moose-like prison matrons.

He broke into a run, dodging around strolling couples and parked cars with the passion and ease of his high school football days. Unfortunately, those days were long past, and by the time he arrived at the steps of the precinct office he had to bring himself to a stop, braced against a lamppost. A slow, wet snow had started to fall; when he looked up, he could see individual flakes dancing in the light. He stayed and watched, choosing a flake and then trying to match his breath to its descent.

Give her that kind of peace, Lord.

“That you, boss?”

The clipped, nasal voice of Tony Manarola interrupted his prayer.

“Tony?” He held out a gloved hand. “What in the world are you doing here? Who called you?”

Tony simply touched his nose in answer to the first question and shot the second right back to Max.

“I was at her house,” Max said, allowing Tony to intuit what he wished.

“She never mentioned she talked to you.”

“She didn’t —wait, you’ve seen her?”

“Yeah,” Tony said, and Max didn’t need to be a street reporter to know there was something Tony was holding back. He also knew no amount of peppering with questions would ever bring it out. “You here to bust her out?”

“
Bail
her out, yes.” Though the former wouldn’t be out of the question, if necessary.

“Good.” Tony sounded as protective as Max felt. “I’ll let her give you the details.”

Tony tipped his hat and was about to walk away when Max stopped him with a tap on his arm.

“I’ve never done this before,” he said somewhat sheepishly. “Bail someone out, I mean. I’m not sure I know exactly what to do.”

“Look, boss. I’m press; I gotta stay out of it. You ever get a coat out of check before? Then you can do this. Give ’em the name, give ’em the money, and take her home. Big roundups like this? They don’t want no fuss.”

“All right,” Max said, slightly more at ease, though he couldn’t help cringing at the looming next question. “One last thing. I —I don’t have car fare. For her, not me. I’m fine to walk, but she won’t be in any shape for that.”

A slow grin unfurled across Tony’s grizzled face. “Well, ain’t you the attentive boss?”

“I can’t help but feel responsible. Because of the paper. If it weren’t for that column, she might not even be in those places.”

“Maybe so.” He delivered a light punch to Max’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about the ride, boss. I’ll take care of it.” Within a few steps, he’d disappeared into the street.

Gathering courage, Max ascended the steps to the front door, holding it open for a man and woman exiting the station. She had dark hair and a sharp tongue, if her rapid-fire Italian words were any indication. Her companion —older, stooped, defeated —winced in their wake. It was a puzzle, who was the liberator of whom. Either way, they appeared to be in for a long, hostile night.

Inside, the station was a bustle of activity. A wooden counter stretched from wall to wall, and behind it, a dozen police officers manned their desks. The cacophony of ringing telephones and clattering typewriters underscored shouted demands for lawyers
and quiet —all permeated with a fog of cigarette smoke and profanity.

Keeping Tony’s analogy of the coat check in mind, Max stepped up to the counter and drummed his fingers on its surface, waiting to be noticed. It didn’t take long.

“Who ya here for?” The officer —Meeks, according to the colleague who’d shouted, “Hey, Meeks! Front desk!” —looked like a solid brick of a man, though worn a bit at the edges.

“Miss Bisbaine. Miss Monica Bisbaine.”

Officer Meeks muttered the name over and over, shuffling through a sheaf of papers in a folder before finding what he needed. “Ah, yeah.” He looked up at Max and smiled, revealing a row of strong, cinder-block-like teeth. “Monkey girl. Ain’t you the lucky guy?”

“Excuse me?” How could the officer have possibly known that? Unless they’d somehow worked it out of her. He was ready to jump over the counter and land himself in jail.

“She’s a corker, she is.”

Rather than risk his freedom for an explanation, Max calmly said, “I’m here to pay her fine.”

Officer Meeks studied him again, squinting. “Not sure you’re what she’s expecting. Talked to a woman on the phone. A Mrs. —”

“I’m here to pay her fine,” Max repeated, planting his palms on the counter and looming closer. “Does it matter whom she called?”

“No, sir.” There was a mocking element to Meeks’s response. “I see you’re not bailin’ out the fellow she came in with.” He tapped his cap. “Smart move, that. Leavin’ him locked up.”

Patience was about to lose the battle with prudence as Max worked to keep his voice calm. “I was told the fine is five dollars. Is that correct?” He pulled the money from his pocket,
making a show of unfolding the bills, smoothing them on the countertop.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Officer Meeks said, reluctantly giving up his game. He opened a large, leather-bound ledger, made a few notes, then turned it for Max to sign. There was her name, and next to it, his. The purchase price noted in the column between.

“Wait here,” Officer Meeks said. “I’ll go get your girl.”

The wall behind him was lined with rough wooden chairs, most of them occupied with rumpled-looking women who appeared far too comfortable in this environment. He caught the eye of one, tipped his hat, and received a dismissive snort in return.

Long before he saw her, he heard her voice saying, “What do you mean, a gentleman?” Then she emerged from a back hallway, unceremoniously escorted on the arm of Officer Meeks.

The sight of her stole his breath. She looked so little in contrast to the wall of a man beside her. Her face was pale, the meticulous lining of her eyes now smeared, making her look like a woodcut of an orphan from some Dickensian novel. Without their usual crimson hue, her lips looked more like pale-pink petals, and now they were parted in surprise.

There was a visible slowing to her steps, and Meeks hauled her along like she weighed considerably more than she did. Still, he soldiered on, bringing her to a place at the counter where he reached down, slid a latch, and lifted it, allowing Monica safe passage to the other side.

“Here ya go, mister. She’s all yours.”

His instinct was to take her in his arms, but at the first hint of his intentions, she braced her hands against his chest, and any idea he had of her weakness disappeared in the strength of her barricade.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice little more than a whisper.

“The other lady at your boardinghouse, Mrs. Kinship —”

“She wasn’t supposed to tell you.”

He searched her eyes, looking for any hint of gratitude or warmth, but saw only steeled dark.

“I guess she’s not great at keeping a secret. Would you like me to have the nice officer take you back? I could get a refund and use the money for cab fare home.”

Always before, when they’d been short with each other, she’d softened at a joke. But not this night. Grim-faced, she took her purse, handed across the counter by Officer Meeks, and brushed right past Max, heading for the front door.

“Darling, wait.” He made a play to touch her arm, but she reeled away from his grip.

“Don’t touch me.”

He recognized more pain than anger in her directive and therefore pursued her again, this time forcefully drawing her to him.

“Are you sure you want to accost me in a roomful of police officers?” she said. “I don’t even have to scream, but I will.”

He crouched to better meet her eyes. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Then wait. Tony’s coming with a ride.”

That stopped her. “You saw Tony?”

“Yes.”

By now they’d captured the attention of the weary women waiting in the chairs. They sat forward, clutching their purses to their hearts. One of them whispered, “Who’s Tony?”

“Listen, lovebirds,” Officer Meeks said. “The lady’s free to go. So go.”

“In a minute,” Max said.

“Now,” Meeks countered.

“Come on,” Monica said, grabbing Max’s arm. “I could use some fresh air.”

Left with little choice, Max led the way, holding the door open, touching the small of Monica’s back as she passed through. The snow was falling harder now, thick white flakes against the cool black sky. She immediately turned her face up, blinking as they landed on her long, thick lashes.

“I love snow,” she said, as if she stood alone behind its curtain.

Max watched as the falling flakes worked a sort of magic, cooling her spirit. She closed her eyes and emitted a sigh big enough to see, leaving her mouth open as if to drink in the sky. Never had he seen her this unguarded, this serene —certainly not what he’d expected after the ordeal she must have been through.

The snow was beginning to stick, forming a lacy cover on her shoulders. She heaved them again in a breath that seemed to signal relief. Or perhaps release. Either way, it was clear that she was not the same woman who had run away from Union Station. He heard himself saying, “‘Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’”

She looked at him sidelong. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Just something I think about,” he said, treading carefully, “whenever I see snow.”

“Is it, really?” Her suspicion threatened his peace. “So tell me, Max. How shall we reason together, you and me?”

“I think it’s more important that we reason with God first.” He chose his words carefully, prayerfully, trying to remember the promises he’d made to himself and his Father just hours ago. “I’ve spent some time doing that tonight.”

“And did you have many scarlet sins?” A snowflake landed on her lip and stayed there, a beckoning crystal.

“A few,” he confessed.

“I can’t imagine.”

“They’re mostly to do with you.”

A pale shadow of her flirtatious self broke through. “Well, then, maybe I can.”

He looked beyond her, down the street. Where was Tony with the car? “There’s so much I have to tell you. So much I should have told you already.”

“About what? You have some sort of secret life or something?”