Unfinished (Historical Fiction) (16 page)

He threw on his pants, half-tucked in a stinky, wrinkled shirt from two days before, and shoved his feet into his new, properly-fitting, shoes.

Then he ran like a street boy, with glee and mischief, the four blocks to the telegraph office.

"Hello! You have a telegraph for me!" he puffed in poorly-executed Spanish, winded by happiness and the run.

The clerk, a new worker, nodded gravely. Oh -- that changed James' mood. What if she'd said no?

Never. Impossible.

As if walking through a vat of tar, the clerk slowly ambled behind the counter, then to a small mailbox, and pulled out a piece of paper. He returned, each step an excruciating obstacle between James and Lilith, until finally he handed the paper to James.

Nearly shredding it open, James stopped.

Outside would be better.

Trembling hands made the task harder.

And then the words. They were not real. No.

No.

She’d said no.

The message read:

No. I cannot accept. We are too different and this is no life for me.

And that was the last cogent moment for James for six weeks as his world went black and cruel as the caves in which he'd found his fortune.

Chapter Eleven

T
HE HEELS OF HER BUTTONED BOOTS
caught in the crevices between cobblestones as she click-clacked her way down an unnamed street. Her dress felt like a vice, and although she increased her pace, she felt as if she were walking through water, her feet clawing the rocky bottom of a clear lake. She reached up to check her hat and adjust the pin, the feather damp and limp now as the fine mist slowly turned to a full deluge, the incongruity of bright sunshine and sheets of rain giving the stone-lined street with its row houses and gas lamps the feel of an impressionist painting.

What a long few weeks. First, she'd sent her acceptance to James. Then she'd borrowed money from Esther, who eagerly lent the money, calling it “The John Stone Comeuppance Scholarship,” and booked a train to California, terrified after the Titanic incident the previous year, yet ever determined. Living on Beacon Hill without James was a kind of death already. If the fates were against her, she'd sooner drown trying.

Although she'd been home for a week before leaving, James had never replied. That troubled her, but she had his offer and would travel on faith and steam power. She needed little else, and had packed as such, carrying only one large suitcase. Father could send her things later.

Now, the end of a long journey was but minutes away.

Spine stiff and straight, she walked faster, cursing herself for failing to bring an umbrella but tucking the thought away in the back of her mind. A slight smile played on her lips as she thought of him and she willed her tiny feet to walk faster, each step closing the gap of thousands of miles, a journey she'd begun weeks before. The long buildings sectioned into row houses with differing facades, some a pale stone with black iron detailing and others with painted wood exteriors, offered no asylum from nature's wrath.

She would appear before him with the countenance of a drenched match girl. He would have to help her out of her wet clothes to prevent a case of the chills. The thought aroused her, but she kept her face set like a stone statue, neutral and unyielding.

Beggars reached toward her and asked for money in Spanish; she'd studied enough to understand their words and threw some coins, generous and expansive as she walked toward her future. At one point she stopped a man in uniform and asked for directions to a building. The police officer replied and she thanked him, changing direction and seeing the church steeple, knowing her destination was just around the corner. Soon she spotted the gray stone building, the thick wooden door, all just as James had described in his letter. Lilith walked into the lobby, a feeling of relief and excitement blending at once in her chest.

She asked at the reception desk for James' room. The walk down the hall was unbearably long; her every nerve was alive, her arousal all consuming, and her every pore full of anticipation of a sense of peace after all this time. She knocked, rapping on the door to her real life.

The door slowly inched backward and a gorgeous Latina woman with long, black, wavy hair answered, her skin the color of fine, pale silk, red lips lush with smudged makeup and chafed from activity.

Next she saw her reflection in an enormous mirror edged with color, her eyes wild and mouth twisted in a tortured expression, a chandelier glittering in the backdrop. A small-boned blond woman, with red-rimmed China-blue eyes and a sharp jaw, her wet hat hanging on an unkempt hairdo by a loose pin. Her heart slammed in her chest and she clawed at her collarbone, digging through the fabric of her bodice to find air.

Suddenly she was running back down the street, holding up skirts with her tiny hands and thin wrists, struggling on the cobblestones, running and not caring that she made a scene as onlookers stared. Tears streaked her face and she found a small park bench many blocks away and sat and cried until a small child with a crossed eye placed his filthy hand on her gloved arm, offering her a sweet in his other hand.

Startled to find the light fading and the sun almost set, Lilith took the candy and gave the little boy, no older than ten or eleven, a coin that would buy him a decent dinner. He thanked her profusely and hobbled off on the bent legs of a scurvy patient, waving madly to a small crowd of similarly-filthy street kids. Soon the light would be gone and she would be alone in a city she did not know, fumbling through a language she barely understood. She cursed her years of French and Latin at Dana Hall. How utterly useless they were as she struggled to understand the garbled words of street vendors, shopkeepers, carriage drivers and other public servants.

But for the mistake of birth she could easily be that dirty urchin and not the granddaughter and daughter of industrialists. Her worst meal would be a thousandfold superior to whatever filled the cross-eyed child's belly. A hiccup of guilt bounced through her and she wished she'd given him more.

To the task at hand. Securing her safety and finding her way back to her quarters was more important than musing in this courtyard. Hailing a carriage proved harder than she'd imagined, but finally she found one. By the time she returned to her inn, the moon shone bright in the sky. It would be her only companion tonight, its light a familiar comfort and a constant that James would never be.

“Lilith!” James jumped off the bed, unclothed and half drunk, and burst through the door. Her boots clacked against the unfinished wood flooring and he saw the last of her skirts round a corner. He began pursuit.

“What are you doing? Running into the street naked?” Maria's voice startled him; he'd forgotten she was there. Scrambling back into the room, he searched for his clothes and threw them on, feeling like a caged animal on a sinking ship.

What was Lilith doing here? Think, James. Think. Half drunk, still, and foggy headed, he stumbled and fell against the bed, nearly cracking one knee against the bedpost. She'd rejected him. Rejected him outright, in her perfunctory manner. Reaching for his bedside table, he snatched up the well-worn telegram, the paper that ruined his life.

No. I cannot accept. We are too different and this is no life for me.

Two sentences that destroyed him.

And now she was here? Why? To completely humiliate and debase him?

Maria's fury grew obvious as he sat in a stupor, mind racing to understand why Lilith had journeyed so far to see him. The telegram had arrived six weeks ago, a knife so sharp and that cut so deep it seemed to cleave his heart in two with one clean stroke. Staggering out of the telegram office, James had two different passersby ask him if he'd just received news of a death in the family. Essentially, he had. His entire future died in two sentences, along with his heart.

Maria had appeared the next day, checking in for her father. Drunk to the point of near unconsciousness, James had reached for her. And now, six weeks later, she still warmed his bed and poured his pisco, the light liquor he'd grown to enjoy a bit too much. While it – and Maria – did not fill the hole created by Lilith's telegram, it made him forget the hole for brief moments.

Or, at least, allowed him to pretend he forgot.

And now –
this
? Lilith, here in Santiago?

“Why is she here?” Maria asked angrily.

“You tell me,” he laughed harshly, standing and pacing in the tiny room. The laughter turned to a deep, ragged cough, one that had settled into his lungs recently and, it seemed, permanently. The bed sagged in the middle and the window faced a small courtyard. A chipped glass pitcher of water and two lip-stained glasses littered the top of the bedside table. The room stank of sour sweat and sex. His stomach roiled as he fought for clarity. Pouring himself a water, he tossed it down quickly, followed by a second glass, emptying the pitcher.

“She wasn't supposed to come.”

Eager to find Lilith, he walked unsteadily to the door once more, then halted abruptly at her words. “What? What did you say?”.

Her nostrils flared in anger, hands gesturing wildly. “If you leave, you'll never see me again.” Maria's voice was ice, palms splayed and facing him, like an angry mime with words.

Without so much as a backward glance, James stepped out into the bright hallway and ran down the hall.

Maria did not call for him.

“
Busco una Americana. Rubia. Ayudame, por favor?
” James begged of the well-dressed businessman standing in front of the Church of San Francisco.
I am looking for an American woman. Blonde. Please help me
. Ah, his simple Spanish plagued him, though it certainly had improved this year.
Ayudame
– such a simple phrase that meant so much more. Help me find my heart. Help me sew it back together. Help me find the love of my life. Help me to kill the pain.

Help me
.

Some beggar children played nearby, taunting a mangy stray dog who looked to be days away from starving to death. He found the boys as pitiful as any in South Boston, only more so, two of them half blind – literally, with scarred eyes– and most running barefoot and filthy. Desperate, he asked if they'd seen a blonde American woman. Promising them a hot meal if they could find her, he sent them off into the streets, despair seeping into his heart.

If Lilith didn't want to be found, it would be hard to hide. Santiago had few inns decent enough for a woman of her class, and he set out into the dusk in search of every single one. His tattered Spanish proved sufficient to confirm that she simply would not be found. Desperate, he visited the docks, finding one steamer ship with passenger accommodations that befitted someone of Lilith's class. Unable to board, he hounded every ticket-taker and dock hand with descriptions of Lilith, begging the main office to pass on his desperate plea that she contact him. He hastily scribbled a message:

My Dearest Lilith,

Please come back to me. You were not supposed to see what you saw. It is not what you think. Please. Please.

Your love,