Annie's Stories (6 page)

“Afternoon, Mr. Adams.”

Stephen tipped his hat at the shoeshine boy he passed every day on that street. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

The lad only shrugged.

“You should be in school. School prepares you for the future.”

“If you say so, Mr. Adams.”

“You want a job that will support a family someday.”

The boy smiled, tight-lipped, as though holding his tongue. Stephen didn’t know what this boy’s family life was like. Hopefully this lad had a father who kept his earnings safe. There were happy people in this neighborhood. Not everyone gave up as easily as Stephen’s father had.

Stephen kept whistling as he walked. If there was one thing
you could say about the habit, it was that the cheery sound lifted spirits. Just the effort made him stick out his chest, pull back his shoulders, and push breath into his lungs. The endeavor usually made him feel better, and it was worth trying all the more in light of the president’s death, the main topic on people’s minds today.

After work Stephen rushed home to shave and put on a clean shirt in hopes of seeing Annie at the Irish dance. Davis heard him come in and met him before he could clamber up the steps.

Stephen hung his head. “I know I’m late this month, Davis. I’ve got the money for you, though. Let me go up and get it.”

“Fine, fine. Terrible news about President McKinley. . . .”

“Indeed. A horrible, deplorable thing.” The two of them stood quietly for a moment, a silent tribute to the dead president that seemed to be repeated countless times all over Manhattan that week.

“Before you go, Adams, I need to speak to you.”

“About?” Stephen’s feet hurt. He wanted to sit down.

“The rent.”

“I’ll get it.”

“Yes, you said that.” Davis cleared his throat and stared down at a cigar wedged between his fat thumb and index finger.

Most men Stephen had observed fiddling with unlit cigars did so out of agitation. He wondered what the trouble was with Davis.

Davis glanced up, his eyes intense. “Just gotta raise your rent is all. Sorry to do it, but I got no choice. My printing costs went up.”

This was bad news indeed, but Stephen didn’t think it ought to affect the rental property. “Well . . . er . . . not my fault precisely.”

“Ah, but it’s your luck you live over top of the offices of a publisher, now isn’t it?” Davis shifted from one foot to the other. “You know, seeing as you like reading so much, you’re probably good at judging what makes a book grand.”

“Well, I suppose all the reading I do, or try to do, does make me a judge of sorts. Look, Davis, you don’t really plan to increase
 
—”

“That’s right.” He pointed the cigar at Stephen. “The more you read, the more discerning you are. Got my people searching for good material, but I declare they don’t read enough. I need someone who is sensible yet imaginative enough to spot good work when he sees it. Anyone who enjoys Verne will know what I’m talking about.” The man drew his posture straighter. “You could be the fellow, Adams. Young, connected with the public, unencumbered by traditional publishing parameters. Say, bring me a good manuscript, one I can sell ten thousand copies of, and I’ll give you rent half-price.” He said that as though he were doing Stephen a favor.

The man had to be desperate to think a postman could find him his next bestseller. “Now where on God’s green earth would I find a manuscript? I don’t know Verne personally, Davis.”

“Of course not, and I’m not saying that exactly. Lots of folks talking about fanciful children’s books. Something like that.”

“You mean something like
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
?”

Davis chuckled, rubbing the brown vest that barely stretched over his gut. “There’s a new trend going round in children’s publishing. Moving away from frightening fairy tales to new, lighter adventure stories kids are keen for.”

“That so?” Stephen remembered
Grimms’ Fairy Tales
and how the stories had frightened him when he was a child. Maybe there was something to this trend.

His landlord glanced over his shoulder to his open office
door. “Davis Publishing would love to be a part of that. Yes, we would. You talk to folks every day, seeing as you deliver mail. As many people as there are in New York City . . . well, got to be a writer or two on your route, I imagine.” He patted his overstuffed vest.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“But you could find out, I’d guess.”

“Look, Davis, I don’t know anything about the book business. I’m afraid you’ve got me over a barrel.”

“Not my intent, son. I just gotta pay my bills. Starting next month your rent is fifty cents more.” He cast his gaze at the book in Stephen’s hand. “What’s the harm in trying? Ask around. And you do know a good story when you see it.”

“Did you say fifty cents more?”

The man nodded as he backed into his office and closed the door. Stephen stared at the frosted glass that spelled out the name of the company. There were not many apartments in town that he could afford
 
—not to mention any as close to the main post office, where Stephen picked up the mail he delivered, as this one was.

He did not want to move.

7

“M
USIC SWEEPS AWAY
the cobwebs in your mind,”
her da always said. Annie had missed the dance last night because of preparations she and Mrs. Hawkins were making for Aileen’s arrival. Kirsten had been working long hours, so she hadn’t been able to go either. Work came first, but as Annie swept the front steps, she appreciated this memory of her father’s love of music, a memory she chose to keep. She sang the words to one of Da’s favorite songs.

When she got to the chorus, she realized someone was humming along with her. She continued the song to see if he’d keep up.

     
“Those days in our hearts we will cherish

          
Contented although we were poor

     
And the songs that we sung in the days we were young

          
On the stone outside Dan Murphy’s door.”

The postman joined her on the stoop. “You know the words to that song, do you?”

Annie leaned against her broomstick. “I’m Irish, don’t you know.” Her da used to sing that song to her, but she didn’t feel like saying so.

“True enough. I learned it recently and haven’t gotten it out of my head.”

Annie laughed. “I thought I’d heard you whistling it.”

He tipped the bill of his hat toward her. “Tell me, Miss Gallagher, do you know this shop of Dan Murphy’s that the song mentions?”

“Can’t say as I do, Mr. Adams.”

“Sounds like a jovial place.”

Annie sighed and stared out at the brick and clapboard siding buildings and paved sidewalks. “Aye, it does.”

The man fumbled through his bag. “Got the mail for you.”

“I thought you might.”

He smiled and handed her a stack. “Plenty of mail today. Keeps me employed and the bill collectors away.”

Annie playfully shook her head at him. “Thank you, Mr. Adams.”

“Quite welcome. Always good to see you, Miss Gallagher.”

He had emphasized the word
always
. She knew she was blushing, so she bent her head down toward the bristles of her broom. She had not felt so comfortable around a man since . . . well, since her father. “And you, Mr. Adams.”

She wasn’t sure what made her look up just then, but she spotted a man on the street staring at them. A panic rose to her throat, an emotion she didn’t anticipate. Puzzled by how a stranger could unnerve her, she supposed he must know the postman or maybe he was looking for an address.

The postman glanced over his shoulder and then back at her. “Miss Gallagher, do you ever
 
—? I mean . . . Those Irish dances, the maid dances . . . Mrs. Hawkins mentioned that you have been there.”

She struggled to draw her focus back. The stranger moved along. “Aye, I go when I can.”

“I have been to a few myself.”

“Is that so? I thought I saw you once.”

“I was there yesterday, but I didn’t see you.”

“No, I could not go, but perhaps you were there two weeks ago. That was the last time I attended.”

“I missed that one. I’m afraid my work kept me busy.”

They both laughed, as though missing each other at the maids’ dance were a comedy of errors.

“I suppose ’twas just someone who resembled you.” Or someone like that stranger just now? Nay, her imagination wandered.

He stared at his shoes a moment, then smiled at her. “Hope to see you there in the future. Good day.” He turned and hopped down the steps. “‘There’s a sweet garden spot in my memory.’” The postman turned the tune to a whistle and then hurried off down the street.

Clutching the broom in one hand and the letters in the other, Annie entered the house, thinking about how the music had helped to whisk away her sadness. And that song in particular. Memories. If only she could completely separate the good and the bad.

She set the letters down on the silver tray just as Mrs. Hawkins passed her with a basket of sheets. “Splendid day for washing,” she said.

They sent most of their laundry out to be done, but the sheets and linens they did themselves. It had taken Annie several washing days to bury her fear of hot wash water stemming from her toil in the Magdalene Laundry. Even now the impression came rushing back against her wishes. . . .

“Not good enough,” Sister Mary Martha said, plunging Annie’s hands back into the scalding wash water.

Annie gasped and tried to pull her hands out, but the nun held them down.

“No, don’t!” Sister Catherine, a novice, complained.

But no one listened to her. The punishment was meant to
wash away Annie’s sins because, as the doctor had told her, she was a sinner of the worst kind. She didn’t know what she had done. She still didn’t. But she obviously was not good enough for God to want to keep her from that place.

Eventually she’d gotten past it. The effort had helped to bolster her will to share with unwanted girls the power of a story, the importance of keeping only good thoughts. This small victory, conquering her fear of washing, she had achieved without help. She could do even more. So long as she kept her wits about her.

Mrs. Hawkins had been patient with her slow washing, understanding that the Magdalene Laundry had bruised her soul. Even so, the Hawk had insisted she do the work.

“Nothing will help you heal faster than facing the very thing you hated,” the woman had said.

She’d struggled to forget and in fact couldn’t, but with practice the memory no longer made her hands sting.

Annie lifted her gaze to the ceiling to collect her thoughts and bring her mind back to the task before her. “Well, ’tis warm enough to dry the sheets in the air.”

“That it is, love, warm. When you finish there, would you help me?”

“Of course.”

That night Annie woke suddenly from a dream. She and her father were in a field with the mice of his stories. She’d gotten separated from everyone, and no matter which way she turned, she could not find her way out of the field. She heard their voices, but she was still utterly lost and unable to remember the way out. When she awakened, she threw her sweaty sheets off her legs. The hour seemed late, but she was wide awake and decided to go to the parlor and look at the stories again.

Once she had the box in her lap, she realized how very alone she was with everyone else sleeping. Deep in the box, under the loose writing paper, her father’s stories rested. She pulled one out.

By the light of a candle she read the title. “Nolan the Nice Mouse.” She remembered Nolan. He was a reluctant soldier in Omah’s army. She smiled and set it aside. She was cold and needed the blanket from her bed. On her way back to her room, she glanced at the mail on the entry table. The top letter appeared to be from Kirsten’s brother. She was right. He had replied promptly. She returned to the light of the candle in the parlor and her stories.

A tiny tapping noise came from outside the window. Annie nearly jumped out of her skin. “Who’s there?”

“Me, Annie. Let me in. The door is locked.”

“Kirsten? What are you doing outside?” Thinking she must have decided to use the toilet outside the kitchen and locked herself out, Annie hurried to the front door to let the girl in.

When Annie opened the door, she was surprised to find Kirsten not in a nightgown, but fully dressed. Her hair was a tangled mess over her face. “Where have you been?”

“At work. Hurry, shut the door, please.”

Annie gazed past her into the night, then leaned her head out the door and looked in all directions. A hobo leaned against the lamppost at the corner, but that was not unusual. “What’s wrong, so?”

“I just got home.” The girl stumbled in and steadied herself by holding on to the banister.

“I don’t understand. Why so late?”

Instead of answering, Kirsten picked up the letter. “This is like the other one. Has my brother answered, Annie?”

“I believe he has.”

“Read it. Please.”

“Now?”

“Please.”

“Just be quiet. We’ll go in here.”

Annie led Kirsten into the parlor, and she sat on the dark corner of the sofa. Annie slid her fingernail under the seal.

Jonas Wagner

Kirsten sighed and moved toward the stairs. She lifted a foot onto the first step but then set it back down.

“Let me help you to bed.” Annie hurriedly blew out the candle in the parlor and shoved the writing box back into the breakfront. Then she wrapped an arm around Kirsten and helped her to her room. The door was open across the hall, and sounds of heavy breathing told them Grace was fast asleep.

“Quiet,” Annie warned. “I’ll make sure you are up in time for work tomorrow. You leave about half five, that right?”

“That’s right.”

“You still going?”

Kirsten’s eyes were round as robin eggs and just as blue. “I have to go. Please, Annie, make sure I catch the train.” Kirsten collapsed on her bed.

“I don’t understand your coming home so late. Does your boss work everyone this hard?”

Kirsten only moaned, too tired to respond.

Annie removed Kirsten’s boots but left her otherwise dressed, pulling a light sheet over top of her.

She seemed far too fragile for such long hours.

Annie was about to return to her room and wind her alarm clock when yet another soft tapping came from the front of the house. She froze, hearing only the sound of her own breathing.

Then a voice. “Sergeant McNulty, making my rounds. Anyone up?”

Relieved, she rushed to her room to throw a coat over her nightgown, so as not to be immodest, and then went to the door. “Evening, Sergeant.”

“I saw someone just come in. Everything all right, Miss Gallagher?”

“Everything is fine now. Thank you for your concern.”

He tapped a finger on the brim of his gray hat.

She stopped him. “Sergeant? See anyone out there watching us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, our new boarder might be a wee bit . . . uh, unsettled by the city, and she seems to think someone is following her.”

“Was she the one who just came in?”

Annie lowered her voice as much as she could. “She was, but do not worry. Mrs. Hawkins will see that she observes the curfew in the future. Her boss should not be allowed to keep her at work these late hours.”

“I see. Well, I can tell you I saw no one just now. Miss Gallagher, you will inform me if you have trouble with your new boarder, won’t you? There are plenty of people about who get themselves involved with the wrong sort of crowd in this neighborhood.”

No one would know better about that than he. “I will. I am sure she is innocently unaware.”

“All the same, do not hesitate to bring this to Mrs. Hawkins’s attention. I can remove the girl if need be.”

Remove? To a reformatory, the American version of a Magdalene Laundry. Certainly not! “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

Very early in the morning, Stephen neared Hawkins House on his first route of the day. He was happy that he had a mostly residential route and no other postman was required to service the area, like they had to do in business districts, where mail was delivered up to nine times a day. He selfishly wanted to be the only postman Hawkins House had. A few blocks before reaching the boardinghouse, he encountered Owen McNulty. They’d had a brief introduction at church.

“Good day, Sergeant.”

The man dipped his chin in greeting. “Tell me, Mr. Adams. You deliver this route daily. Ever see any miscreants hanging about the boardinghouse?”

“Why, no. Is there trouble?”

“Anyone out of the ordinary?”

Stephen pulled on his heavy mailbag as he considered the question. “This is New York
 
—all sorts of people from various origins. Hard to say what’s ordinary these days. I’m not sure what you mean, Sergeant McNulty.”

“My future bride lives there. You understand my concern.” He placed his large hand on Stephen’s shoulder, dwarfing him as though he were Stephen’s older, much taller brother. “Always valuable to have folks like you be vigilant and report to us anything odd. We can’t be everywhere.”

“I understand. I will most certainly be watchful. Do you think they are in danger there?”

“Probably just the jitters of the newest immigrant girl boarder. Everyone’s on edge with the news of the president’s funeral and all.”

“Perhaps so. Say, when is the wedding?”

The man lifted his hat and stroked his brow. “My Grace is quite attached to the children she cares for, and she’s trying to find her own replacement. The wedding will take place nonetheless, mind you, in just a few weeks.”

“So soon? Delightful. My congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

A broad grin bloomed across the policeman’s face. He was obviously in love. Everyone at First Church spoke about Owen and Grace as the romance of the century, which was amusing because the century had just begun. Whether exaggerated or not, Stephen observed them and was just a bit envious.

Owen continued. “But yes, the time is approaching whether a replacement is found or not. The delay thus far has allowed me to save for all the superfluous things I believe she deserves.”