Bicycle Built for Two (12 page)

“Please, Alex, forget I said anything.”

A likely chance of that happening.
Nevertheless, Alex inclined his head in acquiescence and decided to
let his mother off the hook. After all, she was his mother. “But I
need to ask you something, Ma.”

“Certainly, my dear. What is it?”

He wondered how old Hazel Finney was. From
the respective ages of the Finney and English children, Alex
imagined she was a good deal younger than his own mother. She
looked at least thirty years older. Life certainly didn’t play
favorites.

So Alex told his mother about the Finneys,
putting most of the emphasis on Mrs. Finney. He didn’t have to
exaggerate when describing her condition or her life, a fact that
struck him as unfortunate. “Anyhow, I wondered if you’d be willing
to have the Finneys visit you over a weekend, Ma. I don’t think
Mrs. Finney has much longer to live.”

It didn’t surprise him that, before he was
halfway through with his story, his mother had to dab at the tears
leaking from her eyes. His mother was a very compassionate,
kindhearted woman. He’d inherited his own compassionate,
kindhearted nature from her. He wished he could get Kate Finney to
acknowledge that, dash it. And his mother.

“Oh, Alex, I’d be happy to welcome the poor
woman here. And her daughter, too. Poor dear thing, having to work
so hard to keep body and soul together and support her mother, and
all.” She blew her nose with a good deal of vigor and smiled
tremulously at her son. “You’re such a good man, Alex. I knew you’d
grow into your legacy.”

Whatever that meant. Alex said, “Hmmm.”

His mother went on, “I just hate to think of
people living like that. I hope they’ll stay for several days. I’m
sure Miss Finney can use a rest from her many duties and chores and
jobs.”

Uh-oh. “Um, if Miss Finney comes, too, there
are a couple of things you probably ought to know.”

His mother lifted tear-drowned eyes and
gazed at him. “What things, dear?”

She’s a hard-nosed,
sarcastic, ill-natured, contemptuous witch
. Alex knew he couldn’t say that. “Um, Miss Finney tends to
be a little defensive about her relative lot in life.” He was proud
of that sentence.

His mother, as he might have expected, read
between the lines. “The poor dear thing! Of course, she is. Why, if
she grew up on those horrid streets, she must have learned how to
be as hard as nails in order to survive!”

“You hit it on the head, Ma.” Now Alex was
proud of his mother.

Mrs. English’s glance sharpened
considerably. “I wasn’t always your father’s wife, you know, Alex.
I lived through some mighty hard times before we were married.”

Good Gad. “But—but— Surely, you didn’t—”

“Grow up in the slums of a big city? No.”
Mrs. English smiled gently. “But there are plenty of poor people
outside of cities, Alex.” She heaved a big sigh. “I was so happy to
get away from my own poverty that I sometimes think I didn’t give
you children a broad-enough picture of the world and of life.
That’s what I was trying to tell you before. But you’ve learned for
yourself, through the Finneys, I suppose.” She shook her head and
looked as if she were recalling unpleasant, far-away times. “It’s
no fun being poor and hungry, Alex, believe me.”

Good Gad again. “Ah, I didn’t know you went
through that sort of thing, Ma. You were poor?”

“Dirt poor.”

The same words that applied to Kate Finney.
Would wonders never cease? He tilted his head and peered at his
mother with renewed interest. He’d always loved her. She was his
mother, for heaven’s sake. But he’d never actually thought of her
as a—well, as a person. He imagined most people failed to take
their parents’ humanity into consideration when they thought about
them.

“You grew up in Kentucky, didn’t you?”

Mrs. English nodded. “Yes. Near Bowling
Green. My mother and father had moved there from New England as
pioneers in the thirties. It was a hard life, Alex.” She heaved a
sigh and her face took on a thoughtful cast. “Although, I must say
that I think growing up poor in the country must be at least a
little nicer than growing up poor in a big city.”

“Why?” As far as Alex was concerned, poverty
anywhere would probably be uncomfortable, to say the least, and not
at all something to be desired.

“I’m not sure. Perhaps because there are all
the green growing things in the country. One can grow one’s food,
and my brothers used to shoot birds and game to keep meat on the
table.”

“Maybe. But you don’t have the museums and
art galleries and so forth. Libraries. Culture. You know what I
mean.”

The expression of humor that lighted his
mother’s eyes didn’t give him any comfort at all. “Alex, do you
really believe that Miss Finney and her mother have time to visit
art galleries and museums? You’ve already told me that Miss Finney
has to work at two jobs. I have a feeling most poor people in the
city are too busy working to appreciate culture very much.”

“Maybe. Not to mention dodging their
fathers.”

Drat. Alex knew he’d made a mistake as soon
as he saw his mother’s eyes pop open and the look of shock on her
face.

“Their fathers? What do you mean?”

With a sigh, Alex told her.

His mother lifted a hand to her own throat.
“Good heavens. You mean he tried to kill his own daughter?”

“Miss Finney says he’s a drunkard. I guess
she’s spent the last several months trying to hide her mother from
him.”

“Good heavens. That poor child. How
horrid.”

Yeah
, as Kate Finney might say. It was horrid, all right. He gave
a little start when his mother grabbed his arm and held on
tight.

“Alex, you must be sure he doesn’t get into
the hospital.”

Alex blinked at her. “Ah . . .”

“You must! And do bring her here, please.
Bring both of them. You must, Alex. You know you must.”

“Um, I guess so. That’s what I wanted to ask
you.”

He reflected that getting his mother to
agree to his scheme hadn’t been difficult at all. In fact, he
anticipated having more trouble persuading Kate to go for it.

On Monday morning, when his big, expensive
traveling coach headed back toward Chicago, he began plotting
strategy.

Chapter Six

Kate knew that if she didn’t get some sleep
soon, she’d fall over in a heap. Then what good would she be to her
mother? None, that’s what. She yawned anyhow.

Madame eyed her with a mixture of amusement
and concern. “Kate, what did you do yesterday? Did you work again?
I told you to rest on Sundays. You need your rest.”

“I know, I know.” Kate yawned again. “But
when the White Stockings play in town, they pay a lot of money to
the people who throw bags of peanuts to the folks who watch the
game. And yesterday they played a double-header.” Discerning from
Madame’s expression of confusion that she didn’t know what a
double-header was, she elaborated. “That’s when they play two ball
games in one day.”

“How nice,” Madame muttered. “Your health is
worth considerably more than a few measly dollars, Kate. If you
don’t know that yet, you’ll learn soon enough when your health
breaks down.”

Darn it, of all the people in the world,
Kate had expected Madame to understand Kate’s need to earn as much
money as she could, however she could. Her mother was still in the
hospital, after two whole weeks, and Kate was beginning to worry
that Alex’s money or patience would run out, and her mother might
be returned to the Charity Ward. Even the Charity Ward cost a
bundle, if you made a living like Kate’s. “Right.”

“And what about your brothers? Do they work
all day and all night and on Sundays, too?”

“Darn it, Madame, leave me alone.”

But Madame didn’t leave her alone. “No.” She
answered her own question. “They don’t. And why don’t they? Because
they understand that life isn’t all about money.”

“Darn it, I know life isn’t all about money,
but money matters. In fact, money matters more than about anything
else in the whole world when you don’t have any.”

Madame laughed, and Kate eased up on her
some. “Shoot, Madame, you don’t need to tell me what’s important in
life. I know, believe me.”

“I know you do, sweetie. Here, have a
pickle.” In her thick Rumanian accent, the word came out sounding
like “peekle.”

Good old Madame. For Madame, anything that
went wrong could be fixed if you ate something. “Thanks, but I
haven’t had breakfast yet. I don’t think a pickle would sit well.”
The mere thought made her purse her lips and feel queasy.

Whoops. Kate realized she’d said the wrong
thing when Madame’s laughter stopped abruptly and she frowned at
her.

“Kate Finney, before you put on any makeup,
you get yourself out of this booth and grab something to eat. I
won’t have a starving child working with me.”

“Darn it, Madame, I’m not starving, and I’m
not a child.”

“I don’t care. Go eat something.” She
pointed with a dramatic flourish at the door.

“Aha, it sounds as if I arrived at precisely
the right time.”

Kate whirled around. Hell and damnation!
“No,” she said to Alex, who was looking much too chipper and
handsome in another one of his expensive suits. “You didn’t arrive
at the right time.” No time was the right time for him. And where
in the name of holy Jesus did he get all those fancy suits of his,
anyhow? She’d known him for two weeks now and could have sworn he
hadn’t worn the same one twice. They made him look too darned good,
and Kate didn’t approve.

“Nonsense. I distinctly heard Madame
Esmeralda tell you to get some breakfast. Please allow me to go
with you. I’m hungry, too.” He patted his elegantly vested
midsection.

“Good idea,” said Madame, grinning like a
cat. She looked kind of like a cat even at the best of times, Kate
thought sourly. “You take Kate to breakfast. I don’t want to see
her again for an hour.”

“An
hour
? How the heck am I supposed to
earn a living if you won’t let me work?” Kate, who was furious and
feeling beleaguered and outnumbered, glared daggers at Madame, who
deflected the vicious look with one of her more inscrutable grins.
Kate was so angry, she stamped her foot. Which did about as much
good as shouting. “Oh, bah!”

As ungraciously as possible—and Kate had
learned how to be ungracious when she was quite young—she snatched
up her small handbag and shawl. It was only seven o’clock in the
morning, and the air was slightly chilly. “All right, all right.
I’ll go with you, but I want to be back sooner than an hour.” She
shot a scorching glance at Madame, who smiled sweetly. Next thing,
she’d start licking her paws, Kate thought bitterly. Kate had never
cared much for cats.

“It’s such a pleasure to be in your company,
Miss Finney,” Alex purred as he held the door for her.

“Huh,” said Kate.

She stomped along at his side, resenting him
and Madame and her mother’s poor health and life and everything for
some minutes, while neither of them spoke. She hadn’t changed into
her Gypsy suit yet, so she still wore a plain gray walking skirt
and white shirtwaist, both of which she’d made with her own ten
fingers. The collar of her shirtwaist was high, which was why she’d
selected it this morning: It covered the now-yellowing bruises on
her neck. She’d bought the fabric at Chinese Charley’s. Charley
sold whatever he found in big, cheap lots, and Kate appreciated him
for it.

She made all her clothes, if it came to
that, mostly from material she got at Charley’s. This skirt and
shirtwaist were her staples. She’d worn the gray jacket that
matched the skirt this morning, and was glad she’d done so since at
least she was coordinated and probably didn’t look too incongruous
walking next to her wealthy escort.

Big deal. Kate was tolerably certain that
her entire wardrobe, if she piled up every garment she’d ever owned
from birth until this day, wouldn’t fetch as much money in a store,
provided a store would offer such shoddy merchandise for sale, as
the suit on Alex English’s rich body. It wasn’t a thought
calculated to instill confidence in a person who wasn’t awfully
comfortable with herself to begin with.

“It’s a lovely day,” Alex ventured after
several moments of mutinous silence on Kate’s part.

He, drat him, looked perfectly at ease with
himself, her, the day, and everything else. Naturally. Money did
that to a person, Kate supposed. She, of course, had no personal
experience with the confidence money brought. Bought. Whatever.

“Here, Miss Finney, let’s dine here. I’ve
eaten breakfast here several times. The food they serve is quite
tasty.”

Feeling rebellious, she asked, “How much does
it cost?”

“My treat. I more or less kidnaped you. The
least I can do is pay for the privilege.”

“Privilege? Right.” She stormed into the
small eating establishment, which was operated by two colored men
who claimed they served Caribbean fare. “I’ll pay for my own food,
thank you.”

“Not this morning, you won’t.”

He didn’t sound angry or
perturbed, only reasonable. Kate absolutely
hated
people to be reasonable at her
when she was in a temper. She also didn’t know what to say, so she
flounced over to a table the waiter indicated and sat in a fluff of
gray wool. Alex smiled at the waiter for both of them and took the
chair across the table from her. “That’s a fetching outfit, Miss
Finney. May I ask if you made it?”

She gave him one of her best scowls, which
he ignored almost as effectively as Madame had done. “Yes. What of
it?”

“Nothing. I’m impressed that you have the
skill to do so many things, and do them well.”

Kate stared at him, speechless, for a moment
before she said without as much spirit as she’d heretofore
demonstrated, “Like heck.”