Annie's Stories (5 page)

6

W
HEN
S
TEPHEN PICKED UP
his deliveries on Monday, the mail sorter called to him.

“I think this one probably goes on your route.”

“Thank you, Minnie.” He hurried over to the dark-skinned woman and collected the letter. “Say, how do you like the new job?”

When Minnie smiled, her whole face brightened. “I am so blessed, Mr. Adams. My mama never dreamed her girl child would be working in an office building for the United States government.”

“I understand, but things are different these days. Nearly four decades since the end of the War between the States, and finally things are improving. And please call me Stephen.”

“In New York things are different, yes, Stephen. And I’m a blessed woman.” She motioned for him to come closer and whispered, “Living in New York is mighty dear, you know? The cost of everything . . . um-hum, I am not in the South no more.”

“Yes. What my landlord charges for rent uses up the majority of my monthly income.”

“My husband, Leonard, is running an investment you might
be interested in.” She pointed a finger and gave her wrist a twist. “Whatever you give him, in one week he’ll give you back 10 percent more.”

“Is that right? Your husband knows something about the stock market?”

“Um-hum. He’s worked for an investor for ten years, more or less an errand boy, but he’s a smart one and he has ears. Met him right after I came up here to live. Been married a month now, and he’s a good provider. He knows things, inside talk that can make a lot of money. Got himself fifteen depositors already. Want a part? All it takes is a dollar to get started.”

Stephen considered this. Besides needing money for his future hoped-for family, he had debts to repay due to his family members’ funerals. He’d asked God for help. What if this was the answer?

He pulled a one-dollar silver certificate out of his pocket and gave it to her. If he lost it, he’d know better the next time. But if Leonard could invest it and bring Stephen a profit, Stephen just might pay off his debts faster. He’d sooner trust an investor than a bank, after what happened to his father.

She quickly stashed the money away. “Now don’t be talking about this. He’s not opening it to all folks just yet.”

“Minnie, this doesn’t involve the US mail, does it? Because inspectors don’t tolerate
 
—”

“Don’t you worry about that. I’m planning on keeping my job. You can trust my Leonard.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t
 
—”

“Shouldn’t what? Look, Stephen, if it don’t make money for you, he’ll give you the dollar back. You lose nothing. Give it a chance and come see me at the end of the week, all right?”

Stephen left the office feeling uncertain. She’d said no risk, though.

Whistling as he went, he tried to forget about it and focus on his duties.

During his lunch break, Stephen sat in the Battery and opened a can of cold beans. He’d paid his rent, but he’d only made a small payment to the undertaker. He’d make up for that soon. He watched some children play tag and tried to imagine his meal was really a hot shredded beef sandwich instead of cold navy beans. It really wasn’t so bad. He had just enough money left to eat at Giovanni’s on Saturday night, and that thought would keep him going the rest of the week.

When he stood to pitch his can into one of the new sanitation department waste receptacles, he realized he needed to notch another hole in his trouser belt. His lack of funds was causing him to lose weight. As he walked away from the park, he noted some kids playing there, four boys ranging from about six years of age to about twelve. They should be in school, but no one would insist on it, he knew. He wondered if any of them were hungry. He knew as a kid he often was, but he had nothing to give any of them now, and that made him sad.

Stephen hurried to take the trolley for a couple of blocks. The drivers allowed a uniformed postal worker to ride for free and save a few steps.

When he jumped aboard the trolley, he was surprised to see Mr. Archibald Murray, the undertaker. “Mr. Adams, I hope you were not in the park because you lost your job.”

“No, sir. Just lunch break.”

“I see.” The man pushed back his high-grade stiff hat to give Stephen a semiconcerned stare. “I am reminded, Mr. Adams, that
 
—perhaps financially anyway
 
—matters have not been pleasant for you of late.”

Stephen glanced around, noting a few faces from his mail route. “Shall we refrain from talking business on the trolley, sir?”

“Indeed. I’ll send a man round to your house in a week or so, someone the likes of . . . say, Jim Jeffries?”

“The boxer? What the devil
 
—?”

“That’s right. Heavyweight boxing champ of the world. I know his brother. I know people, Adams. Don’t make me resort to . . .”

“No need, Mr. Murray. I haven’t reneged or anything.”

A lady in an oversize Gibson-style hat cleared her throat and held a gloved hand over her mouth. The undertaker gave her a quick glimpse and then looked back to Stephen. “Well, I am a sympathetic man. One must be, in my line of work, you understand.” He leaned in to whisper, “But I’m not overly patient when someone’s loved ones were buried over two years ago, son.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Just make up the difference this month. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” No Giovanni’s this week. He might be his father’s son, but he was determined not to become the failure his father had been. Stephen paid his bills, mostly, and slept well. It was just the undertaker’s debt he had not yet cleared, but the rest he kept up with. If God ever blessed Stephen with his own family, he would never send his son out to beg on the streets.

Stephen got off the trolley and kicked a can as he walked. During the last decade of his father’s life, the man had held a dependable construction job. That was when Stephen got hired on at the post office and things improved. Stephen might have even been able to put his sad childhood behind him if it weren’t for what was to come. As soon as life dealt Stephen’s family a nasty blow
 
—his mother grew ill with some kind of rapidly advancing cancer, and the bank failed and took his father’s life savings with it
 
—instead of fighting back, his father had turned into a jellyfish.

No one but Stephen, Reverend Clarke over at First Church, and Mr. Murray knew that Stephen’s father had died not from
heart failure, as most people believed, but by his own hand. Stephen had not even told his own brother that a few weeks after their mother passed, their father hanged himself with a belt behind the family’s tenement. Mr. Murray had been discreet. Stephen was grateful.

As he passed one of the letter boxes he attended to, he noticed a man banging his fist on it. He spoke without looking at Stephen, his collar pulled up to cover most of his face. “Do you have the key, son?”

“I’m the postman.”

“Open it. I am on official business.”

“Unless you have replaced the postmaster, I cannot. It’s not time
 
—”

The man turned slightly, his back toward Stephen. “You don’t understand. Someone . . . That is to say, I put something in there I want back.” He slammed his knuckles on the box again. “Open it at once!”

“Sorry. Once it’s in the box, I am required by law to deliver it.”

The man kicked at the post holding up the box. Shadows cast by the building behind them concealed the man, reminding Stephen of a phrase he’d read from Dickens. Or was it Longfellow? “Cloak and dagger.” The mysterious man reached for Stephen, but just as Stephen stepped backward, the fellow withdrew his arm, seemingly changing his mind about accosting a postal employee. “Open it. I won’t report you.”

“I will at the appointed hour, but I am honor-bound to deliver whatever has been mailed.”

The man marched away, thankfully. Stephen wished more folks would understand how the US Post Office operated.

When Thursday came, Stephen at least had the Irish dance to look forward to. It did not seem to matter to those he’d met there
that he was not Irish, and the fact that New York could house recent immigrants but consider them all Americans pleased him. He thought about his customers and how, though different, they were in some ways the same. Everyone struggled to earn a living, at least in this neighborhood. Stephen was thankful he even had a job. He greeted a family passing him on the sidewalk: a raggedly dressed mother, a sullen-faced father, and two little boys whose feet had grown through the ends of their shoes. He gazed down at his polished black leather shoes, government-issued. Indeed he was thankful. He did miss having family, though. Even a crowded city like New York could feel lonely when there was no one to sit around your supper table.

He whistled one of the Irish ballads from the dance as he continued his route. He was in an Irish neighborhood, after all. When he went to the Italian quarter, he ate long macaroni, and when on the odd occasion he picked up an extra delivery route and found himself in Chinatown, he purchased herbs and tea from the street vendors. Folks appreciated that he tried to be part of the community, and he wanted the people on his route to trust the postman, the man who brought mail right up to the steps of their private homes.

He stopped, blinked in the hot sun, and glanced ahead. He was a few blocks from his favorite stop, Hawkins House, with its cheerful hanging flower baskets
 
—a sight to look forward to. What a kind woman Mrs. Hawkins was, taking in young immigrant girls to keep them out of the shabby tenements and away from shysters waiting to take advantage. If only she could save them all.

“Afternoon, Mr. Adams.” A man in a linen duster coat tipped his hat.

“Good day to you, Mr. Parker. What business brings you out here during the week?”

Mr. Parker collected tithes at First Church, where Stephen had begun to attend. That was where Reverend Clarke served, the man who had helped Stephen cope right after his parents’ deaths. Stephen liked to visit different neighborhood churches, but First Church was his favorite and also provided an opportunity to see the Hawkins House residents who attended there.

Mr. Parker lived uptown, but the man had dedicated his time to helping provide immigrant aid in Lower Manhattan.

“Grace left early, as she does every Thursday, and she forgot her new hat.” He held up a box. “I’d say she’s not used to wearing them, so not surprising. She bought it on a shopping trip with my sister.”

Grace, a boarder at Hawkins House, worked for Mr. Parker and cared for his children. Stephen had heard at church that she and Sergeant McNulty were engaged to be married. Interesting how women with a beau attempted to enhance their beauty with fancy garments. “How kind of you to bring it to her. Would you like me to deliver it?”

“Very much appreciated, Mr. Adams. I’m stopping off at the church to help the reverend review some repair work that needs to be done. You say you don’t mind?” He handed the box to Stephen.

“Not at all. Delivery is my business.”

As he continued on, dropping mail into door slots and collecting letters from the locked boxes on his route, he thought about how many Irish immigrant girls were maids for middle-class families like the Parkers. Or else worked in boardinghouses like Annie did. He supposed it was the fact that they spoke English that made them good fits compared to other immigrants.

Ah, Annie Gallagher. If Stephen’s mother were still alive, he was sure she would like Annie. She was friendly, soft-spoken, and obviously a good housekeeper.

He continued on, throwing back balls that spurted loose from kids playing in the alleys, tipping his hat to old women walking with canes, and watching in wonder whenever one of those newfangled horseless carriages happened by.

But all the while, Stephen Adams thought about Annie. Annie from Ireland. Annie with the beautiful curls that seemed to sparkle like gemstones in the sun. Her wide smile, intense green-brown eyes
 
—the memory of her stayed with him all day long. Always Annie.

When he arrived at Hawkins House and twisted the doorbell ringer, it was not Annie who answered but Mrs. Hawkins. He explained his encounter with Mr. Parker.

The woman collected the hatbox from his arms. “A hat? I’m a bit perplexed she’d spend her money on one, but I suppose it’s that handsome fiancé of hers she wants to look her best for.”

“Yes indeed, I suppose so. Sergeant McNulty.”

“The very one.”

Stephen tried to peer past the sturdy woman to see if Annie might be standing nearby. Mrs. Hawkins must have guessed his intent. “My housekeeper has the afternoon off. It’s those maid dances. Are you familiar with them?”

“I find the music splendid, Mrs. Hawkins. I try to pop in on them when I can.”

“Superb idea, Mr. Adams. I suppose you should get along to your work now . . . so you have time to get there.”

“Oh, why, yes. Good day.”

The fact was, he just wasn’t entirely comfortable around women since his mother passed away. Pleasantries he could handle, but not much more. He had never had a sister, not even any female cousins close by. Stephen Adams’s family line through his parents would die with him if he never married, and he had no idea how to find a wife. He was an average-looking,
hardworking fellow who was more comfortable reading about people in books than socializing with them. But he was trying to overcome that obstacle. Proper effort could move mountains.

He did remember what his mother had once said.
“Kindness is understood in all languages.”
He was as nice as he could be, especially when visiting Hawkins House. Maybe one day that lass would notice. That had been his prayer, and Scripture said, “The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.” He was doing his best to be a righteous, upstanding man.

He passed by a couple walking arm in arm. They barely noticed him because they were staring into each other’s eyes. He thought about his parents as he dropped a few letters through a mail slot. He had no memory of his father courting his mother, of course. He could not recall the two of them ever gazing into each other’s eyes. Other married folks he knew, from church and near where he lived, just seemed to go through life, working day after day, year after year. There did not seem to be any time for fun or romance. But those husbands had snared their wives somehow.