Annie's Stories (3 page)

But now she had to earn her own money. She would need a new coat come winter, and she had set aside twenty cents a week for that expense. Some of the Irish lasses she’d met told her to buy her coat on time and make regular payments, but she would not do that. Her da had taught her to pay in full when she purchased anything, and to owe no man even a farthing. Just because her savings were accumulating more slowly than she wished was no reason to dismiss that advice. She would not rent the building that would bear her father’s name because then she’d be at the mercy of a landlord. She would purchase her own property. She had been considering something like this for some time, even though she’d discovered she needed a minimum of one thousand dollars for a proper-sized structure. In just over four years she would have enough, but could she endure Aileen for that long?

3

A
FEW DAYS LATER
Annie noted the new boarder’s letter still lying on the silver tray.

“She comes home from work so late I’ve not had the opportunity to tell her about it,” Mrs. Hawkins said. “But thank you for bringing it to my attention because she is home at the moment.” Mrs. Hawkins moved toward the kitchen, her black heels clicking on the floorboards. She paused and returned to Annie. “Written in English, wasn’t it?”

Annie glanced at the mail. “Truly. Our postman is as American as President McKinley and wouldn’t have delivered it otherwise.”

The woman winked at her. “Oh, but he is much more handsome, wouldn’t you say, love?”

“I . . . uh . . . well . . .”

Agnes Hawkins closed her eyes, pursed her lips, and shook her head. Then she asked for the letter, which Annie handed her. The woman turned it over and smoothed the paper with her thumb. She held it toward the light coming in from the kitchen window. “I’m thinking that the whole thing might be in English, and I would be surprised if our Kirsten could read it. The country folks in Germany must be more educated than I realized.”

Annie felt her mouth drop open. “I’m not going to open it to find out.”

Someone coughed from the back stairs.

Unsure how long Kirsten had been observing them, Annie tried to obscure the fact that they had been nosy by collecting the letter from Mrs. Hawkins and handing it to the petite German girl. The thin blonde with the hard-consonant dialect of the Germans, with no apology for her illiteracy, pushed it back toward Annie. “I cannot read it. You will tell me what it says,
ja
?”

Mrs. Hawkins folded her hands in front of her. “We don’t mean to pry, love. Just surprised someone would write to you in English.”

“You do not pry.” She gave her wee head a dismissive shake. “My brother wrote it, Mrs. Hawkins. I never learned to read, in German or any other language. He went to school and learned English. He probably thought someone would read it to me.” She shrugged her shoulders.

Annie could not contain her curiosity. She had not yet had the opportunity to learn more about this girl. “Where did you learn to speak English?”

Kirsten licked her thin lips. “I learned . . . My father thought I should know. He knew only a few words and although he did not believe his daughter should go to school, he thought I would one day emigrate. Things in my country . . . the times are hard. So he sent me to work at our neighbor’s farm. The neighbor’s wife, when . . .
als ein kleines Mädchen
. . . uh . . . a little girl, lived in America. She was sent back to marry and stayed, but she teach me,
ja
?”

Annie nodded to show she understood. “There are schools for immigrants, at night. You could learn to read.”

Kirsten shook her head. “I work now.”

“And your brother? He is in Germany?” Annie asked.

“Uh,
nein
. He is in America.”

Mrs. Hawkins, seeming to want to rescue Kirsten, who still struggled a bit with the English language, held up a finger to interrupt. “He is working far upstate, Annie. Helping with the construction in the state capital, didn’t you say, Kirsten?”

The girl bobbed her blonde head.

Kirsten was just the kind of lass Annie hoped to help with her new library
 
—someone alone and needing skills, especially the ability to read. Even though it did not seem she wanted any help beyond having her letters read to her, Annie hoped she’d be interested later.

From the front parlor the mantel clock struck four. Mrs. Hawkins shooed the girls toward it. “Go on and read it, Annie.”

When they entered the large room where they spent their leisure time and entertained guests, Annie watched as the new girl moved to the edge of an upholstered chair like a down feather on a breeze. She seemed so weightless a brisk north wind might have blown her off her feet. As sad as this girl seemed, Annie couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened to her before she came to live with them. Had the darkness threatened to swallow her as well?

Annie chose the sofa in direct line with the chair and slid a fingernail underneath the seal on the letter.

Kirsten narrowed her crystal-blue eyes in Annie’s direction. “It is from Jonas,
ja
? Does it say from Jonas?”

Annie laid the letter in her lap. “Are you sure you want me to read this to you?”

“I would not trouble you, Annie Gallagher, if it were not necessary. Please, go on.”

“If you would, just call me Annie.”

“Ja.”
The girl lifted her chin in Annie’s direction.

Annie directed her gaze to the bottom of the paper.
Your loving brother, Jonas
. “Aye, ’tis from your brother, Jonas.”

Kirsten sat straighter. “I knew it was so.
Gut, gut.
” Her balled fists resting in her lap seemed to suggest she wasn’t as pleased as she tried to sound. “Please read, Annie.”

Annie inhaled and began.

Annie swallowed hard before taking a breath to continue. They were only words on paper, true, but a rush of warmth ran up Annie’s neck to her chin as she stared at the script. These words were not meant for her, yet they touched her deeply. So kind, so gentle, reminding her of her father. Kirsten was loved. The tongue is never too far away from the heart’s intentions. Words reveal the character of a man.

Annie cleared her throat as though a tickle had interrupted her. Then she continued.

Annie glanced up to see Mrs. Hawkins standing in the doorway.

“Jonas found Mrs. Hawkins’s place for me, and I’m working until we can be together again,” Kirsten explained. She turned toward Mrs. Hawkins. “He inquired and found the minister of your church,
ja
?”

“That’s correct, love. Reverend Clarke recommended us. I will get us some tea. You go on.”

“Thank you.” Annie turned back to Kirsten. “Well, ’tis fine to know we have a good reputation,” Annie said. “I hope your stay has been acceptable.”

“
Ja.
Very much, thank you. I especially enjoy this day. I do . . . an errand for Mr. Watson. He is my supervisor. So I am dismissed from work early today,
ja
.”

Kirsten worked at a shirtwaist factory, having taken the job the first day she arrived.

Annie bit her lip but couldn’t hold back her tongue. Reverend Clarke had said one should measure one’s words. She just had to release the commentary waiting on her lips. “Your brother is quite educated to be writing in a foreign language, so.”

Kirsten sighed, lacing her alabaster fingers together in her lap. “I suppose he is.”

The male in the family got the education, like Kirsten had said. Annie picked up the page again, hoping she hadn’t embarrassed the girl. All the Irish immigrants Annie had met at the dances, even those who spoke the native Irish language, could read and write English, at least well enough to get along. But that wasn’t true of all new immigrants. Annie could do so much for them, perhaps even save those without loved ones from falling into despair.

She pasted on her best smile and focused again on the letter. She spoke aloud what she read
 
—various bits of news about Kirsten’s kin back home. When she got to the last paragraph, she read silently first to herself and then blurted, “Oh, I think that’s good news for you.”

Kirsten’s cheeks bloomed pink. “What?”

“He wants to come see you.” She read on.

Kirsten’s face paled. She waved a palm at Annie. “Oh, he has
gut
job. He should stay at it,
ja
. Stay where there is work.” She bit her lip. “In the capital of New York. He works there,
ja
.”

Annie nodded, not understanding why anyone would choose to be separated from someone who truly loved her. She turned back to the letter.

An amused gasp burst through Annie’s teeth just as Mrs. Hawkins tottered into the room with a tray of china cups and a tin pot of tea. “Who needs a room, dear?”

“Do not worry,” Kirsten said. “I . . . I will tell my brother the house is for women only, with your help, Annie Gallagher. You will help me . . . write a letter,
ja
? He will not come here,
nein
.”

“Your brother? How wonderful that he’s coming to the city.” Mrs. Hawkins deposited the tray on the round tea table by the window. “There is an adequate house two blocks north. Let me check on that. When will he arrive? Is he staying on? Does he have a job here?”

Kirsten squirmed on the chair as though she sat on pins. “Perhaps October. But maybe he will not come. Please do not do anything yet, Mrs. Hawkins.”

“Annie’s own cousin is expected soon from Ireland. How nice for you, lovies.”

Annie tried not to grimace as she folded the letter neatly back into a square and handed it to Kirsten. Lovely for Kirsten
perhaps, but not for Annie. She began to help Mrs. Hawkins serve tea.

“We will tell him where to stay and where to get work. Could you reply to him, Annie?”

Annie turned to catch a glimpse of the young boarder. Kirsten’s stare darted between Annie and Mrs. Hawkins. “Certainly. If Kirsten would like me to.”

The German girl rose to her feet, the top of her head just brushing Annie’s shoulder. “He should know that he cannot come here. We should mail it soon. Could you do it today, Annie?”

“Let’s do it now, so.”

Annie approached the tall breakfront bookcase on the far side of the room and removed her father’s writing box from behind one of the glass doors. She brought the box to the sofa and lifted the lid. Withdrawing a sheet of paper, she laid it on the slanted writing surface. Then she carefully pulled open the tin inkwell cap. As she inspected the steel nib of one of her pens, she felt Kirsten’s stare. “I’ll be ready in a moment, but please do not speak too quickly or I won’t be able to keep up without blotting the paper.”

Kirsten’s pale brows arched. “You have . . .
die Stifte
. . . uh, such fine . . . writing instruments. You must be an accomplished . . . uh . . . scribe.”

“Me? Only the fortunate recipient of my father’s writing desk.”

“Did he do much writing?”

Mrs. Hawkins had seated herself in her overstuffed damask-covered armchair, the one everyone knew was reserved for her. She wrinkled her forehead as she slurped from her china teacup. “Do tell, Annie. I have always wondered myself.”

Annie rubbed her fingers over the side of the box, admiring
the inlaid pale wooden design of intertwining vines as she had done a hundred times in private. “He told stories, mostly. That was his profession. I believe the only ones he wrote down are the ones I have in this box.”

Mrs. Hawkins reached for one of her oatcakes. “What kind of stories are they?”

“Children’s stories. Tales about rabbits and mice and such. He used to tell them to me aloud, like Irish folks do. Then when he got sick, he wrote these down . . . before he died. . . .” Her voice caught without warning.

Mrs. Hawkins rose and brought her a cup of tea. “There now,” she said when Annie had swallowed a bit of the weak tea the woman was so fond of. “You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to.”

“I . . . uh . . . I was just going to say he wanted me to have a tangible link to our time together.” And that was all she now had.

“Why, isn’t that lovely.”

“I didn’t know he’d written them down until later. Father Weldon
 
—that’s Mrs. Hawkins’s brother,” she told Kirsten. “He found them in a secret compartment in the writing desk.”

Mrs. Hawkins tapped her fingers together. “I did not know that. Can you show us?”

Annie ran a hand along the back edge until she heard a click. Then she opened the lid and revealed the compartment.

“Isn’t that amazing, love?”

“It is. If they hadn’t been concealed there, my uncle would have stolen them.”

“Why?” Kirsten asked.

“He was just that mean. He took the wee bit of money my da had left, which had been stored in this desk, but not in the compartment. My father must have believed these stories were
more valuable than money because he had to have removed the money from the hiding place to make room for these papers. On his deathbed, my father told Father Weldon where to find them.”

Kirsten brushed a napkin to her lips. “Your papa? He was . . . published? Books? Newspapers?”

“Oh no. Like I said, he
told
stories, you know
 
—entertained folks. These on paper, they are just tales a father told his daughter.”

Mrs. Hawkins set her cup down on the table. “Well, he certainly had a beautiful lap desk. I have always admired it.”

Annie held her pen over the paper. “Thank you. Kirsten, please begin.”

The girl instructed Annie to introduce herself as the scribe of the letter and to tell Jonas that when he came, there would be another boardinghouse willing to take him in. And not to worry. Kirsten was adamant Annie put that in, and Annie thought it was quite considerate of her.

When Kirsten closed the correspondence, Annie left the letter lying on the writing surface to dry and returned to her tea. The task hadn’t taken too long after all.

The front door opened and closed. Annie glanced up. “That would be your roommate Grace, returning from work.”

Mrs. Hawkins rose and held up her hand. “See to your leisure. I’ll see to the meal.”

There were only two boarders at present: Grace, who was a nanny and maid for a widower and his children in Midtown, and now this wee German lass. And soon Aileen. Annie expected more boarders in the future. And then she might not have leisure time. “Thank you.” She sipped her tea for a few minutes and then returned to the writing box and carefully carried it to a side table near Mrs. Hawkins’s chair, mindful not to disturb
the drying letter. “I’ll come back shortly and ready the letter for the postman,” she said to Kirsten.