Annie's Stories (8 page)

Eventually they came to the docks. The driver stopped to let them disembark. You could see Lady Liberty from there. A green glint had begun to overcome the copper, but her majesty was no less diminished than when Annie had first seen her.

“Wait here,” Mrs. Hawkins ordered the driver. “Remember, I’ve hired you for the evening. No in-between jobs while you wait.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The driver tipped his flat-topped hat.

As they scurried toward the crowd anxiously waiting for the government ferry, Mrs. Hawkins leaned in close to Annie. “What does she look like, love?”

“She’s a wee lass with a contrary demeanor.”

“Well, generally then, give me an idea.”

“So, she’s reddish-blonde hair
 
—more yellow than not, much sunnier than my own
 
—and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Her arms, too.”

“Does she bear any family resemblance to you or your mother, perhaps?”

“My mother? Mrs. Hawkins, I told you I did not know my mother. Did I ever mention what she looked like?”

“Of course not. I’m sorry, love. Just trying to get an idea. Anything else you can tell me about her?”

“Pale eyes, green, I think. In any case, not as deep as my own color. My aunt and uncle are both short in stature, and so is she.”

“Good heavens, love. That describes half a shipload of folks coming from Ireland. Good thing I am acquainted with several of the immigration officials. I’ll inquire about her by name. Otherwise we’ll be waiting quite a long while as they work their way through the list.”

When the ferry arrived at Ellis Island, Annie sucked in her breath. Neil might have come too
 
—to rip her away and cast her back to a solitary cell. She closed her eyes and tried to focus. She was in America. She could stand up to anyone now, the way she’d seen Mrs. Hawkins do with that Pinkerton.

Even so, her stomach flittered in anticipation. Annie tapped her lips with her gloved hand. Her imagination had just gotten the best of her, as it was wont to do. All they would do is collect Aileen and go back home. Annie would do her best to steer clear of her as much as possible, but what happened was in the past. Should Aileen decide to accuse Annie of wrongdoing again, who would now so easily believe her?

They filed in behind a crowd of bearded men and a few elderly women, everyone still whispering about the poor dead president, as though whispers could make things better.

When they stepped ashore and approached the massive brick-and-stone building, an impressive structure that had replaced the former building that burned before Annie had arrived, Annie sensed the optimism the travelers carried with them, the same timid hopefulness she’d had when she first came to America. She had been processed onshore because the island was still being rebuilt, but the uncertainty of what was going to happen before she was released and what this new country had to offer was surely the same for those on Ellis Island this day. There was opportunity in her new country, and she could still open her library, someday. She would not let wee Aileen spoil that ambition.

Mrs. Hawkins approached one of the officials and spoke to him. Annie realized she’d been gawking up at the peaks and corbels along the roof of the structure, lost in memories of her own passage to America. She hurried to catch up with the woman.

They waited. The idle time allowed Annie to once again relive in her mind her first day in America. She remembered hearing something that momentarily shook her confidence. She’d feared someone could send her away again. She’d overheard someone mention a reformatory, a description some folks used back in Ireland when referring to the Magdalene Laundry. When she heard the name of the place in America, she decided to inquire of a well-dressed woman in the room where passengers waited for family members to pick them up. This particular woman appeared to be American, and Annie guessed her to be better informed than she herself was.

“Excuse the bother, but can you tell me
 
—do you know St. Anne’s in Albany? What kind of place is that?”

“Oh yes. A home where the nuns rehabilitate young girls who have misbehaved. I hear they have great success with it, and the girls are ready to be responsible citizens by the time they turn twenty-one.”

Nuns? “And there are doctors there?” She suddenly realized she’d been tugging on one sleeve.

“I expect so. But nice girls like you don’t need to worry about such places, now.” She smiled and walked away.

Nice girls? Smart girls, for certain. Annie was determined never to allow anyone to force her into such a place again, and she chided herself now for entertaining the thought that Aileen could have any influence over Annie here in America. She rubbed the spot between her eyes with her index finger. Not Aileen. But possibly Neil.

The hands on the wall clock moved forward, but still Aileen did not come. They were nearly alone in the vast waiting room. “She’s not here,” Annie said. “We should go.”

“Let me inquire.” The Hawk approached another official, who pulled a small pad of paper from his pocket.

“Give me her name and where you live, and I’ll do my best to get information to you. There are many reasons for detainment: illness, inability to pass a cognitive test, confusion, likelihood of becoming a public charge . . . I will find out.”

As he said this, Annie noticed a wad of banknotes peeking out from the inside breast pocket of his jacket. Mrs. Hawkins had paid him to find Aileen.

“Don’t worry, love,” Mrs. Hawkins said as they headed back to the mainland ferry. “The folks here don’t mistreat people. I daresay we both know corruption in other lands. We are in America now.” She lifted her head toward Lady Liberty’s torch.

On the ride back home, the Hawk was quiet, perhaps waiting for Annie to speak. She reached for the woman’s hand. “Why did you pay that man? You don’t even know Aileen.”

Mrs. Hawkins gazed out toward the gas streetlamps that cast a mellow glow across her face, lighting her forceful profile. “I know
you
, love. How could I not try to help? No harm will
come to her while she’s on Ellis Island, or they’ll have Agnes Hawkins to deal with.”

That was the spirit Annie admired, although she wasn’t entirely sure Aileen was worth it.

9

F
INISHED WITH
V
ERNE’S
Facing the Flag
, Stephen reached for the journal where he recorded his expenses. When he had stopped by the dance earlier, a girl named Emma told him that Annie wasn’t there, so he headed back home. The electric bulbs buzzed above his head, and he complained to himself about how those lights made his eyes especially weary. Electric lights were convenient generally, but there was something about reading by a kerosene lamp that he found comforting. Probably one of those childhood memories the modern alienists found so fascinating to study. Stephen had read some of their publications simply because he’d found nothing else to read.

Sighing, he looked over the numbers he had recorded, trying to determine where all his money had gone. He hadn’t written everything down
 
—just rent, groceries, and laundry expenses. The amount he dropped into the hands of newsboys that week probably totaled ten cents. Twice he’d paid for elderly citizens to ride the trolley because the men either couldn’t find their wallets or truly had no money for the fare. He’d bought a girl an apple, and it seemed to brighten her day as she continued down the street hobbling on crutches. He had deposited a quarter into the collection box at St. Paul’s when he stopped in to get out of the rain for a few minutes.

He ran a hand through his hair. God had not given him a mind for numbers, but he was determined to keep a better watch. If only he had studied mathematics with more vigor when he was in school, he might not have this trouble now. He considered the possibility that such things could be attributed to genetic failings. Numerous books had been written exploring the influence of inborn tendencies as opposed to the efforts of stern discipline. He would fight against his lot in life to avoid following his father’s example and instead use his own intellect. Unlike his father, he would not trust the banks. He might have been only a teenager during the financial troubles of 1893, but he knew history. His father should have taken heed of that before he lost his money.

The only funds Stephen had risked thus far was the dollar he’d given to Minnie, and now she was saying it was worth more than she had anticipated. Good, but he needed even more. When he picked up his second round of deliveries that day, he had stopped by the board near the time clock where requests for extra help were listed. Nothing. Minnie had called out to him.

“Hey, Stephen Adams, how’s your day been out there?”

“Oh, hi, Minnie. All fine. How about yourself?”

“Couldn’t be better.” She whispered, “Leonard has done it. He stopped by to take me to the lunch counter today, and he says he’s made more money than he ever expected. Instead of a 10 percent gain this week, he’s made that dollar of yours worth $1.50.”

“Are you sure?”

“That’s what he said. Want it back?”

“Uh, no. Just invest it again.”

“Sure, but if you want to deposit any more, just let me know.”

Minnie’s words echoed in his mind as he worked. Leonard’s scheme seemed like a much easier way to make extra cash than working overtime. He just hoped it wasn’t ill-gotten. Stephen
would plan his way through life rather than become a pauper, even if it took some creative thinking.

He rose and retrieved his money box from behind some cereal tins in his kitchen pantry. Counting what was left told him how much he had to spend far better than those numbers on a page. Oh yes. He’d need to pay the tailor who had mended his trousers. Better keep that in mind. Stephen rubbed his hand over his chin. His lack of remembering had never been intentional. A flaw in his mental makeup perhaps, but not in his character.
Please, God. Don’t let me become my father.

He set aside the money for that expense. All he had left was two dollars. Not enough for his rent. Not enough for the undertaker’s bill this month. But he would make up for that on payday.

He found a dime in the bottom of the box. If he were a fan of dime novels, he might be tempted to purchase one. But no. He couldn’t even spare that. Sticking the coin in his pocket, he scrambled out to head for the drugstore and purchase shaving soap.

Unfortunately he met Davis, who was coming into the building just as Stephen was going out. He had no answer for the question he knew the man would ask.

“Find anything yet, Adams?”

“Now just where do you think I’m going to find a children’s book author?”

The man shrugged. “Ask around. Lots of people say they’re gonna write a book.”

“Yeah, sure thing. Look, I’m on my way out.”

Davis backed away from the entrance, hands up in surrender. “Rent’s due next week, remember.”

“I am aware of that, Davis. I’ll get it to you right after I get paid on Saturday. Is that satisfactory?”

“Sure.”

All of a sudden even soap seemed like an extravagance. He could scrape by with what was left in his shaving cup. Stephen headed to the diner instead, where his buddy always poured him coffee for free.

A bell jingled on the door when he entered. He found an open red leather stool at the counter. Dexter, the owner, filled a white porcelain cup and shoved the sugar jar toward him. “Job wearing you out, Stephen?”

“Aw, no. I enjoy my job.”

“Good thing, fella. Good thing.” He leaned against the counter as Stephen sipped from his cup. “Whatcha reading these days?”

This was what continued to draw Stephen to the diner. Literature lovers must congregate to talk about books. Two people could read the same story and note totally different points of interest. He thoroughly enjoyed that kind of thing. “I ran out of material. How about you?”

Dexter plunked a book down on the counter. Stephen turned the spine up. “Longfellow?
The Song of Hiawatha
? Haven’t you read this before?”

“Yep. Three times. Like you, I keep running out of good books. You live above a publisher. Can’t you work out some kinda deal with him?”

“As a matter of fact, he thinks I might be able to help him find a new children’s author. There’s a fat chance I can.”

Dexter shrugged as though the request were not exceptional in the least.

Stephen set the book down and picked up his cup. “Oh, I finished
Facing the Flag
. Forgot to bring it back with me. I’ll drop it off on my way to work tomorrow.”

“Fine, and what did you think? That Verne sure weaves
some remarkable tales. I liked it all right myself, but really, all that patriotism at the end for that European country. Didn’t seem real to me. If it had been the good ole US of A, maybe.”

“I thought it was pretty good. Say, Dexter, do your kids read?”

“Sure. In school. American history stuff.” He stowed his book under the counter. “They’ve been begging for a copy of that
Wizard
book since it was published.”

“
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
, you mean? By Baum?”

“Yep. That’s the one.” Dexter wiped the counter with a white linen cloth while he talked. “I hear it’s better than the Brothers Grimm and more entertaining than Mother Goose. Figure if business picks up a bit, I’ll get ’em a copy for Christmas. I saw it in the bookshop. Copies are selling better than Harriet’s creamed cabbage.” He nodded at his wife through a small pass-through to the kitchen. “Imagine all the copies are gone by now, but they’ll be printing more.”

The mention of a home-cooked dish distracted Stephen. “You know I adore Harriet’s cabbage. I’ll have to stop in for the special next payday. Save me some.”

“You got it.”

Dexter’s wife’s cabbage sometimes sold out early in the day. People knew what they liked when it came to food and books. Stephen couldn’t blame Davis for wanting a piece of that publishing pie.

Dexter lifted his black brows. “Last year I bought them Baum’s
Father Goose
, and they’ve about worn out that book.”

Davis was right. Parents
were
interested in those kinds of stories for their children. “Dexter, you don’t happen to know any authors, do you? Anyone writing children’s stories and talking it up here in the diner?”

“Can’t say as I do.” The door jingled, and he lifted his head and smiled at his newest customers. “Lots of people come by,
though. You never know who you’ll meet. Keep your eyes open, Stephen.” He scurried away, coffeepot in hand.

Stephen hoped Dexter would be able to buy that book for his kids someday soon. He wondered if Annie Gallagher had read it yet. If he and Annie were both able to read the book, perhaps he could trade his book banter with Dexter for a Baum discussion with her.

When Annie and Mrs. Hawkins arrived back home from their unsuccessful trip to fetch Aileen, they found Grace sitting alone in the kitchen eating the soup they had left for her on the stove. She glanced up at them and nodded. She hadn’t taken the time to hang up her shawl. The deep-red fabric lay across her lap. “Come eat with me. There’s plenty more soup in the pot and I’ve warmed it, so ’tis ready.”

“Kirsten has not returned from work yet?” Mrs. Hawkins asked.

Grace glanced toward the front door. “She has not.”

Annie fetched two white bowls, the deep ones with painted pink roses around the edges, and proceeded to dish up bean soup while Mrs. Hawkins hung her own scarf on a hook near the back door. “Did you go to the dance, Grace?”

“Indeed. Owen got the night off work, and I do think he is warming up to them. A few more times and I’ll have him step-dancing.”

Annie smiled at that. It was the joviality of the gatherings that helped her view her birth country more positively, and what could be more amusing than a man, whose connection to Ireland went way back to his granny, dancing like the Irish, like her da . . .

Mrs. Hawkins handed Grace a bowl of bread slices she’d
covered with a linen napkin to keep the flies away. “We have readied the room for Annie’s cousin, the companion we told you about, love.”

Grace accepted a piece of bread and slid it into her steaming soup bowl. “Ah, when is she coming?”

Mrs. Hawkins took her own bowl of soup from Annie’s hands. “Thank you, love. Indeed, Annie’s cousin will be here tomorrow or the next day.”

Annie pulled out a chair across from Grace and sat. “Her ship arrived today, but she has been detained.”

Grace used the back of her hand to push away the lock of hair that always seemed to trouble her. “Oh, dear me. I remember my first day in America so well. Didn’t they frighten me when I came over.”

“I do remember,” Mrs. Hawkins said. “You were so unnerved you couldn’t even speak to Sergeant McNulty on the trolley.”

They giggled about that. Now she was going to marry him.

Grace patted her lips with a blue cloth napkin. “Nothing ill happened to me. ’Twas just . . . you know, not knowing. I’ve come to understand more about America, Americans, and . . . well, I’ve learned that my security comes not from others but from God.”

From a silent God? He had not stepped in and helped when Annie was in danger. Grace had seemed afraid, true, when she came over. Everyone is afraid of something. But Grace had worked to overcome her fears. That was how it was done. Still, if Annie were to say aloud that God had not helped them like they’d imagined, the women would surely chastise her. She kept those thoughts to herself.

Mrs. Hawkins smiled and patted Grace’s hand. “You’ve done a wonderful job with the Parker children, love, teaching them a bit of what you’ve learned.”

Grace let out a breath. “I’m trying.” She glanced at Annie. “Better to move on from memories like buttonhook eye examinations by immigrant doctors, aye? I’m sure your cousin will get through fine, just like thousands of others have.”

Annie swallowed hard, the soup stinging her throat. She remembered thinking that no matter what that immigrant doctor did, she couldn’t be rejected and sent back. She just couldn’t. Aye. Better to move on.

Mrs. Hawkins leaned her head to her shoulder, apparently noticing that Annie was lost in thought. “I understand there are health checks on Ellis Island. Indeed there must be more than what they did when I arrived. But the latest government regulations seem to be segregating more people for the purpose of deporting them. Tell me, what was that eye inspection like?”

Annie lifted her gaze to the plastered ceiling as she recalled. Back then Annie had prayed to God just in case he might be listening anew in America.
Please, God, remember Father Weldon’s blessing and have mercy on me.
Standing in a line had helped save her before in the laundry. When she arrived in America, she had stood as close to the lass in front of her as she could. When it was her turn to lift her chin up toward the man doing the examination, sweat trickled down the back of her dress and a gray wooziness threatened to drop her to her knees. But then it was over. She had made it.

Annie shook away the memory and answered. “We stood stoically as the doctor used an instrument
 
—a buttonhook as Grace said
 
—to pull back our eyelids, looking for trachoma.”

Mrs. Hawkins gasped. “They did nothing like that to me when I arrived at Castle Garden years ago. I’ve never heard folks talk about that. How horrible, love.”