Wild Heart (13 page)

Chapter 8

Michael's sitting room was empty. Sydney knocked softly on the open door anyway, then came inside and glanced around, curious about how he lived these days. Charles had kept this room neat as a pin, as if he hardly used it. Michael, she saw, was a different story: he had turned it into a miniature natural history museum. Every available surface was covered either with books or the objects he was looking up in them—leaves, twigs, rocks, berries, pieces of bark, cracked birds' eggs, bits of nest, innumerable dead bugs, and a lot of other things too arcane or too dessicated to identify: Naming them had become an obsession with him.

A splash of bright color drew her to the table in front of the fireplace. Amid the clutter, she found the open tablet of drawing paper she had given him to replace the one O'Fallon had ruined. There were only a few blank pages left; all the others were filled with Michael's colored drawings of ... she turned the pages interestedly, impressed by the vividness of the images even when the subjects eluded her. Was that a tree? Was this a bird? This a human figure? Mostly what she saw was color in big, brilliant swaths and busy, repetitive scratchings, so strong that the images buried among the intense hues seemed irrelevant. She bent closer, scrutinizing the lines and strokes. How did he get so much color out of pencils? He wet them, she realized, then laid the sides, flat and thick, against the paper. Like a brush.

She would give him watercolors next. In fact, she'd get them tomorrow.

Oddly excited, she turned to go—then stopped as she heard the murmur of a woman's voice from the bedroom. Inger, she guessed, either talking to herself or to Michael. Smiling, Sydney nudged the nearly closed door open and walked in.

Michael saw her first. He shifted his look of intense concentration from Inger to her, as if both women puzzled him equally right now. Otherwise he didn't move; he remained stiffly seated on the edge of his bed, thigh to thigh with Inger, who was pressing his hands to her big, corseted bosom and smiling at him with her eyes closed.

She opened them when Sydney shoved the door against the wall, so hard the knob left a dent in the plaster.

"Oh! Ma'am!" She jumped up, flushing scarlet. "I was—I was just making the bed, and he was helping me," she blurted, backing away, as if she expected Sydney to strike her."

She felt like it. "Oh yes, I saw how he was
helping
you," she muttered, narrow-eyed and acid-voiced.

"We wasn't really doing nothing." One of the girl's thick yellow braids had come down; it hung on her half-exposed breast, coyly hiding the nipple. She looked ready to burst into tears. "We was just sitting, honest. Please, ma'am, please don't sack me—"

"Go make somebody else's bed," Sydney snapped, and Inger darted around her to the door. "And stay away from Michael, do you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You're teaching him bad grammar!"

"Yes, ma'am!" She fled.

The thud of her footsteps died away quickly, and then it was as if she had left all her embarrassment behind in the room. Sydney couldn't even look at Michael; she turned her back on him and fiddled with the pewter comb and brush set on his dresser. An exasperatingly long minute passed before the bed springs creaked, meaning he had finally stood up. In the mirror, though, she saw that he was looking at the floor, not at her, and his handsome face reflected more confusion than contrition.

She faced him. Why should
she
have to break this nerve-wracking silence? "Well? Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"

"I've done something wrong." He rubbed the back of his neck. "What was it?"

"What was it?
You—you were—" She stuttered to a stop. An impulse to yell at him, shout out sarcastic questions, had to be reined in forcibly.

"You're angry because of Inger?" He pointed to the open door—as if she might've forgotten who Inger was— sounding nothing but innocent. "Because we touched?"

"I'm not angry," she denied reflexively. "But, Michael, you can't
do
things like that."

"Why?"

"Because.
"

"You touched West," he pointed out.

"That's different."

"Why?"

"Because it is. I
know
Charles. We were practically engaged!"

Her distress finally communicated itself to him; he looked at her closely, cautiously. "But Inger said she liked it. Do you think I hurt her?"

"No, of course not."

"I didn't."

"I
know
that."

"Okay." He smiled hopefully; his expression said,
So what's the problem ?

"This is not my job," Sydney mumbled, turning around again. "Ask my brother, he'll explain it to you."

"Ask Sam?"

"No, not Sam!" Could he possibly be pulling her leg? "Michael, do you really not understand any of this?"

"Yes, I understand you're angry. You say you're not, but you are. I'm sorry I caused this. I won't touch Inger again if you don't like it."

"It's not what I like, and I tell you I'm not angry!" She lifted her arms and let them drop to her sides in frustration. "You're not the first man to trifle with the housemaid, and I'm sure you won't be the last. Oh, this is really none of my business. You do what you like, Michael, but take my advice. Next time, don't get caught."

Even in her own ears she sounded angry. It was that look of innocent bafflement on his face that kept getting to her. She left the room in a hurry, trying not to flounce.

* * * * *

Aunt Estelle was closeted with Papa in his study, trying to talk to him about a charity ball she wanted to host at the end of the summer. As usual he wasn't listening. Sydney couldn't decide if it was good or bad that they were together, and that she would only have to deliver her news once.

"Oh, Sydney—good," her aunt said, breaking off in the middle of an explanation of why it was vital for Papa to personally invite Marshall Field, whom he knew through their mutual interest in natural history. "Sydney, you explain it to him. All he has to do is speak to the man, quite casually, perhaps when they're both at one of their board meetings for the new museum. What could be more natural? Of course I'll send a formal invitation to Mrs. Field, but if you would only put a word in her husband's ear, Harley, I think we might really get them. Are you listening? Sydney, tell—"

"Aunt Estelle—Papa—I have to tell you something." They both looked at her sharply, arrested by her tone. She softened it deliberately. "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. It's just that... well, Sam seems to be missing."

"Missing?"

"Mrs. Harp says he went out to play after lunch, and she hasn't seen him since." Mrs. Harp was the housekeeper. "He didn't go in the water," she said quickly, and their faces relaxed. "His bathing suit is here, and Mrs. Harp said he was walking toward the road, not toward the lake. He's probably just out, playing somewhere, and he's lost track of the time."

"But it's not like him to miss his afternoon snack."

"No," she had to concede. "It isn't."

"Perhaps he's with Michael," her father suggested.

"Yes, well, actually." She dreaded this. "It looks as if he probably is. Because Michael's gone, too."

"Harley, call the police."

"Now, Estie—"

"Don't say, 'Now, Estie.' Call the police. Your son's been kidnapped by a wild man, and you say to me, 'Now, Estie'?"

"Now, Estie, don't jump to conclusions. Nothing to worry about, chances are. You've tried calling them, Sydney?"

"Yes." Until her throat hurt. "They didn't take Hector. The odd thing is, Sam's taken all the money out of his little bank."

"There! The wild man's extorted it from him!"

As worried as she was, Sydney had to laugh at that. She went toward her father, drawn by his calmness. Even if absentmindedness was behind it, it was a comfort to her right now. "Sam's not at Billy Gaylord's house, and he's not at Todd Durham's—I called on the telephone. I'm going to walk down to the village and see if he's there. It's not like him, but if he took all his money, he must be planning to buy something."

"I say call the police."

"When did you last see Michael?" asked Papa.

"This morning. We—didn't have our lesson today, and he didn't come to lunch." Presumably because he was avoiding her. Should she tell them about the incident in his room with Inger? No. No. Why should she? It couldn't have anything to do with Sam's disappearance.

"We'll give them until dinnertime," her father declared with uncharacteristic decisiveness. He gave Sydney's hand a pat. "If they're not home by then, we'll think about calling the police."

* * * * *

"That's a policeman. See? They always wear long blue coats and coal scuttle helmets."

And carry black sticks, like O'Fallon, Michael thought to himself. "Do they hit people?"

"Sure! But only if they're criminals, like a murderer or a robber, or somebody who's drunk and gets in a fight. Mostly they just stand in the street and direct traffic."

That was what this one was doing, on State Street and Madison, which Sam said was the world's busiest corner. Sometimes Sam said things like that and they turned out not to be true, but not this time. Michael had to back up against the brick wall of a building so nobody would step on his feet. He had never seen so many people or heard so much noise in his life. Sam told him what all the vehicles rumbling and banging down the street were: brewery truck, ash wagon, gentleman's carriage, ice cart, milk cart, grocer's sled, hansom cab, waffle wagon, ladies' phaeton. Best was the cable car, which was really four cars stuck together and moving at the same time, pulled by
nothing.
Nothing you could see, anyway; Sam claimed it was electricity, but "Sparks" was all he could say when Michael asked what that meant.

"Why are they all rushing? What's happening?"

"Nothing, it's not a fire or anything. This is how it always is."

"Why?"

Sam shrugged. "I guess they have jobs, the men do, and they're going to them. Let's go look at those guys." He pointed across Madison Street to a giant hole in the ground with metal boards sticking up and men everywhere. "They're building a new building. Come on. Maybe it'll be a skyscraper!"

"A what?"

"Like that one. See? They call them skyscrapers because they're so tall they can scrape the sky. Not really, but they just say that. That one has twenty-one stories and it's the biggest building in the world. Once I went up in it. Sydney wouldn't go, she's afraid of heights."

Michael could believe it. It felt like walking into a bobcat's den on purpose, but he made himself follow Sam out to the curb and wait until the policeman blew an
ear-piercing shriek on his whistle, stopping all the carts and drays and people and animals going in one direction so the ones going in the other could cross over. The stones in the street—cobbles—felt strange on his feet through his shoes. A man coming toward him bumped his arm and kept going; two ladies with parasols would have smacked right into him if he hadn't dodged out of the way at the last second. Sam grabbed his hand and told him to hurry up.

They watched the workmen building the building for a long time. The noise of their hammers and riveters and saws was deafening, but after the shock wore off he started to like it. He and Sam had to yell at each other to hear. They weren't the only ones who liked watching men at work; they were part of a crowd of people, mostly men, standing around the giant hole. The metal boards were steel beams, Sam said, and they were so strong they could hold up a whole building. Michael, who had always thought the strongest things were rock and wood, didn't know enough words to express his amazement.

"Let's get something to eat," Sam said finally.

"Good idea."

"And you pay. Still got the money?" He grinned that was a joke.

"Yep." He had it in his trousers, weighing him down on the right side like a pocket full of stones. This would be the second thing he had paid for. The first was the steam train tickets. Their trip to the city had been Sam's idea, and the purpose was to teach Michael about money, adding and subtracting and how to buy things from people.

"Let's get a drink first. This place looks okay. I can read everything on all the signs," Sam said proudly. "Can you?"

" 'Three cents and five cents a glass, ice cold. Sar . . . sarsa . . .' "

"Sarsaparilla soda. We don't like it."

" 'Strawberry, lemon, vanilla, cham . . .' "

"Champagne cider. We don't like it."

" 'Birch beer, root beer, ginger ale, lemon sour. Sporting goods, fishing tackle. Pipes and smokers' art...' "

"Articles."

" 'Articles. Try our milkshake, five cents. One cent for
The Tribune,
Chicago's greatest daily.' "

"Very good. What kind of drink do you want?"

Michael considered. "What's vanilla soda?"

"That's what I'm getting! It's the best. Let's go in, and you order."