by Ami McKay
Shaking her head, she’d told me no. Her face had turned pale as she said, “As soon as I leave this spot—that will be the moment your father will come home. This city is filled with too many women, each one waiting to take another’s place. If I’m not here, some other woman will be here to open the door. She’ll welcome him, she’ll feed him. He’ll forget all about me and take up with the new one. You know Mrs. Peale from two doors down? Well, I can tell you for certain that weren’t the same Mrs. Peale who was there a year ago. Where’s that first Mrs. Peale, the one I knew?”
Mrs. James, Mrs. Deery, the first Mrs. Peale—all the women who came to Mama ended up asking the same question, Does my man love me?
Mama would never tell them yes or no. She’d just look her petitioner in the eyes and ask, “Does he watch you when you walk away? Not with lust, mind you, but with care. As if he’s worried you might just up and disappear.”
At that, the woman would either sigh with relief or break down in tears. Then Mama would collect her fee and show the woman the door.
I’d often wondered if Mama’s test for love held true for everyone, even for mothers and daughters. The night Mrs. Wentworth took me by the hand and led me down the steps, I’d hoped to turn and see Mama wave one last goodbye. All she did was pull the curtain shut and turn down the light. She didn’t watch me walk away.
My heartbreak that night was terribly polite. It let me know it was coming for me, even when I insisted on ignoring it. This won’t end well, a quiet voice whispered from the centre of my head. Then my hands went moist, my mouth went dry, and my ears whined and buzzed with the warning of what was to come next. Nothing good.
Pound, tap, tap. Pound, tap, tap. Pound, tap, tap, pound …
Mama used to sing a song with a rhythm that went just like that. It was a pretty little tune about a ladybird and her young. She sounded happy and free when she sang it, even when she got to the part where the ladybird’s babies burned.
Ladybird, ladybird,
fly away home.
Your house is on fire
and your children all gone.
All except one,
and that’s little Ann,
and she has crept under
the warming pan.
Pound, tap, tap. Pound, tap, tap. Pound, tap, tap, pound. I beat my fist on the wooden door in the alley behind the Birnbaums’ shop. This is how you let them know you’re waiting, Nestor had said.
I’d left Mrs. Riordan’s early that morning, before she was awake. The scratching and nibbling of the rats was more than I could bear. No matter how kind she was, she was a spectre of everything I didn’t want to become. I’d vowed to go back on occasion, bringing her a twist of roasted peanuts or a pail of flat beer to repay her for her kindness, but I’d never stay with her again.
“Good day,” came a man’s voice from above my head.
I looked up to find spectacled eyes peering down at me through a peephole that had opened near the top of the door.
Standing straight, I greeted the man with a polite smile. “Good day, sir.”
Nestor had told me how things should go with Mr. Birnbaum, explaining that the man’s customers all addressed him as “Herr” Birnbaum and that only his friends and business acquaintances were allowed to call him by his first name, which was “Wolfe.” The boys who worked for him called him “sir” and never “boss.” His wife simply called him Lieb, because he cared for her more than anyone or anything else. “She’s the one you have to please,” Nestor had warned. “It’s not easy to get on Mrs. Birnbaum’s good side, but once you’re there, you’re set.”
“We have business, I take it?” Mr. Birnbaum asked, staring down at me.
I was alone in the alley, but I’d passed a group of roughs on my way here and I couldn’t help thinking they might not be far behind. They’d been loud and rude, smacking their lips and sucking kisses from the air when I walked by. Although they couldn’t have known about the bracelet, I was worried they’d followed me anyway, just to see me run. Reaching up my sleeve, I pulled Mrs. Wentworth’s golden snake down far enough that Mr. Birnbaum could see it.
He pushed his face farther through the hole, his eyes tick-tocking as he looked at the bracelet. “Yes, yes, it would seem that we do.”
I reached for the handle on the door, but Mr. Birnbaum stayed put, still staring at me. Finally, he cleared his throat and asked, “Who sent you here, dear girl?”
“A friend called Nestor,” I replied.
“And your name is?”
“Miss Moth Fenwick, sir,” I answered, trying to sound as proper as I could.
“May I assume you’re here because you assisted Nestor in some way?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered.
Mr. Birnbaum slid the peephole shut and I heard him turn lock after lock after lock. Once the door opened, it led right to another. Behind the second door was a landing where you could choose to go up a flight of stairs, down a flight of stairs or straight ahead into the backroom of the shop.
Gaslights glowed along the walls, making it seem far too cheerful a meeting spot for thieves. Boxes and barrels were stacked neat against the sides and there wasn’t a scrap on the floor. There was a bright copper spittoon in the corner and when I looked down into it, I could see to the bottom. The inside of the thing was just as shiny as the rest. There was a funny little sign on the wall above it with a picture of a woman chasing after a man holding a rolling pin high above her head. The man’s face was red and his cheeks were all puffed out, his eyes bulging. There was writing on it too, but it was in the fancy, fat script of the kind that was on so many of the signs in the shop windows of Dutchtown. From the look on the woman’s face, I guessed the sign said something awful, something mean enough to make a man think twice before doing any spitting at all.
Mr. Birnbaum had the same kind eyes and warm smile as Mr. Bartz, a shopkeeper on Stanton Street, only Mr. Birnbaum still had all his hair on his head and Mr. Bartz had none. Mr. Bartz sold bread, cheese, sausages, beans, beer, hot soup, and two kinds of pickles from two great glass jars—one for sour and one for sweet. His potato soup was three cents a cup, and once in a long while, when Mama’d had a really good day, she’d let me go down and fetch some to share.
Mr. Bartz would ladle the steaming soup from the black of the pot, and then go behind the counter and bring out a large loaf of pumpernickel bread, the crust shining and dark. He’d always cut the end off and hand it to me. I’d shake my head, trying to refuse it, but he’d take my hand and place it there, insisting in his deep, kind voice, “Take it, dear girl. You’re nothing but a wisp.”
Mama said that Mr. Bartz would be ruined one day, because he cared too much for making things right and keeping people happy. I hoped that she was wrong. To me, it was because of Mr. Bartz that things kept going as right as they could in our part of the city. In the spring, when the crusts of dirty snow melted, the great puddles that were left behind in the street got kicked and splashed by the horses and streetcars. Storefronts and houses were soon plastered with a vile slop of chicken innards, bits of wet newsprint and stale dung. Mr. Bartz scoured every bit of it off his place. He sent his goodness through the handle of his broom like a shock of lightning, casting the dirt off his steps while the rest of the street fell to the rats. He took rags and vinegar water and rubbed round and round at his windows. His place would be clean even if it killed him. He would not give up.
I planned to go straight to his shop when I was finished here to order myself a bowl of soup and to make certain he was still there.
“This way,” Mr. Birnbaum said, as he led me into the backroom. “I’ll take you to Marm.”
His wife was sitting at a large table, moving a pen across a wide ledger. The puffs on her sleeves brushed the pearls dangling from her ears, setting them to swinging. Looking up from her work she stared at me, making me feel as if I was doing something wrong just by breathing. No woman I’d ever seen, not Mama, not Mrs. Wentworth, not even one of Miss
Clattermore’s ladies, could compare to her in their presence or style. She and the folds of her dress filled up her chair so much that if it weren’t for the carved, high back of it, I would have thought that she wasn’t resting on anything at all. The smooth, black curls at her temples lay perfectly flat against her cheeks, telling the world that she was the kind of woman who wouldn’t stand for anything or anyone she didn’t like.
Seated next to her was a young man, his clothes slightly ill-fitting, his shirt collar loose at his neck, his coat sleeves just shy of his wrists. Despite the comical way that one of his ears sat much lower than the other, he had an air of great seriousness about him. His honey-coloured hair was slick with oil and his garments were clean and whole, without any tears or shine to them at all. Hanging on a hook behind him was a brown wool cap with a short brim. It, too, had a rightness about it. This was not a boy from Chrystie Street. This was a boy who cared how things ended up, a boy who’d never allow his hat to touch the ground.
“Please sit,” Mrs. Birnbaum said, closing the ledger and pushing it aside. “I’ll get to you in a moment.”
I sat down on a stool at the table and waited.
All around her were piles of trinkets—watches, hatpins, necklaces, rings, brooches. To her left was a small bucket labelled “Herr,” to her right, a bucket labelled “Frau.”
The boy pushed the hair off his forehead with the palm of his hand, his long, slender fingers making straight rows through his well-kept mane. I touched my face when he looked at me, self-conscious about my bruises and the mess of my hair. I must’ve seemed a sad rag picker to him.
“ ‘$20 REWARD,” the young man read out loud from a newspaper in front of him on the table. “Lost on Monday morning while riding the Fourth Avenue street car—A Lady’s Honeymoon pin. Gold crescent with bee and blue gem flower. The above reward will be paid and no questions asked if returned to No. 14 Irving Place.’ ”
Mrs. Birnbaum scooped one of the mounds of jewels towards her and began sorting through it with her thick fingers. Two watches (one with a chain, one without), four stick pins, and a sweet, gold pinkie ring with the initial L. When I saw the ring, I thought it looked the right size to fit my finger. It would have made my hand look gentle and fine, and when I wore it I could say that my name was Lucy or Laura or Lydia or Lily.
Mrs. Birnbaum kept at the pile until she found the pin the boy had described. Taking hold of a special lens she had clipped to a metal band that circled her brow, she flipped it down over her left eye and twisted at it until she was satisfied. It made her look lopsided and strange, like one eye was right and good while the other had been plucked from a fish. She held the pin to the light and peered at it through the lens, humming a little tune while she stared at it. I didn’t mind the wait, however long it might take. I liked being close to that pretty little ring and watching this big, fish-eyed woman sing to bits of gold and silver.
Mrs. Birnbaum’s eyes went large and soft as she looked at the pin, and for the first time I could see why Mr. Birnbaum must love her. There was something sweet about the way she gazed at it, as if she had the power to make the pin more precious just by the touch of her glance. “Sapphires for the petals, and a pearl in the centre,” she said. “How lovely.”
She turned it over once, then twice, and then positioned the lens in front of her eye again. “ ‘Forget me not,’ ” she whispered, reading the sentiment on the back of the pin. “How dear.” Then, clucking her tongue against her teeth, she shook her head. “But I’m afraid twenty dollars isn’t quite enough for the owner to get it back. It looks like Mr. Birnbaum gets this one.” Arching an eyebrow, she smiled at the young man and added, “One must always consider the sum of the parts.”
Mouth firm, he nodded in agreement.
I took a moment to glance around the room. In the corner was a large, bamboo birdcage with a magpie sitting on a perch inside it. The bird seemed to nod at Mrs. Birnbaum’s words as well. The door was wide open, so the occupant could come and go as it liked. The bird tilted its head and looked at me for a moment, then turned away to preen itself. Its long, black feathers made me think of Mrs. Wentworth and the way her cape had hung down off her shoulders the night she took me away from Mama’s. I anxiously wondered if all the wealthy ladies in New York knew one another, and if Mrs. Birnbaum knew Mrs. Wentworth, and if somehow my being here meant that she would try to put me back into Mrs. Wentworth’s hands.
Making a sweet cooing sound, the bird flapped to the back of Mrs. Birnbaum’s chair. Taking the pin from her hand with its beak, the bird hopped to the corner of the desk and dropped the pin into the bucket marked “Herr.” It nodded again, whistling and then jeering out what sounded like a question. “Cake-cake-cake?” Then the bird repeated the word once again, this time so clear it sounded like a baby begging its mother. “Caaaake?”
Mrs. Birnbaum scolded the bird, “Soon, Jenny Lind, soon.”
My empty belly grumbled at the thought of any kind of food, so loud I was sure Mrs. Birnbaum, the boy and the bird must have heard it.
The young man went on to read more queries for lost things—a heart-shaped pendant, a ruby ring, a handful of pocket watches. As he read, Mrs. Birnbaum located each item, almost as if by magic, then deemed it either worthy of the reward offered or for Mr. Birnbaum’s pot. Any “found” jewels were placed in small boxes and labelled, to be returned to their owners “posthaste.”
Voices came from behind us at the door. When I turned to look, I saw two boys talking to Mr. Birnbaum. They seemed much like the other guttersnipes I’d seen, trousers torn at the bottoms, worn-out soldier’s caps crooked on their heads. Mr. Birnbaum spoke to them in a cheerful tone, inviting them to go downstairs.
“I believe Barber Jim is in the cellar with a few other lads. Maybe you’d like to join them?”
The boys answered together, “Oh yes, sir, we would.” Then they tipped their hats and disappeared down the stairs.
“Caaaake!” Mrs. Birnbaum’s bird complained.
The woman turned to the bird and held out her hand. “Oh, my dear Jenny, I haven’t forgotten you. Come here.”
The bird hopped along the table and right into Mrs. Birnbaum’s lap. As fast as Mrs. Birnbaum could bring spongy bits of cake from her pocket, the bird gobbled them out of her hand. I could smell the cake from where I sat, the odour of sweet cherries reminding me of times I’d snuck Mama’s empty kirsch bottle out of the cupboard and under the blankets of the bed. I’d opened it up and breathed what was left of the scent until I could taste the liquor in the back of my throat.
Magpies never push their offspring from the nest. The mother carries her baby down to the ground instead, staying with her, watching everywhere she goes until she learns to fly.
Stroking the magpie’s feathers, Mrs. Birnbaum bent over and kissed the top of its head. The bird looked lovingly up at her and cooed. When it had finished, Mrs. Birnbaum guided it with her hand to perch on the back of her chair.
“Let me see it,” she said at last, turning away from the bird and holding her hand out to me. “Show me what you’ve got.”
I pulled the bracelet from my wrist, all the while wishing I could keep it. I knew it wasn’t for me, but that didn’t change my desire to have it snug and warm against my skin.
Mrs. Birnbaum’s eyes widened as she placed the bracelet on a set of scales at the far end of the table. She stared at the weights, one finger to her lips as if it helped her to think. Picking the bracelet up again, she turned it in her fingers, looking at it all the way around, inside and out.
“Anything else?” she asked as she slipped the bracelet over her hand and up her arm.
Unsure of what she might offer me, I thought of Mrs. Wentworth’s fan. I could feel it against my chest, poking at my skin with every breath. I guessed that Mrs. Birnbaum would be glad to take it, but in the end, I chose not to show it to her. It wouldn’t fetch the same sort of price as the bracelet, and I wanted something to remind me that Mrs. Wentworth didn’t wi
n. It would be there if I got desperate for something else to sell.
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you still have entrance to the house where this came from?” she asked, stroking the bracelet with her fingers.
“No, ma’am.”
“Pity.”
Leaning close, she whispered in the young man’s ear. He nodded to her and opened a wooden box that was sitting on the table. Picking out a few coins, he handed them to Mrs. Birnbaum, who in turn handed them to me.
“For your trouble,” she said, her smile revealing one gold tooth at the corner of her mouth.
“Thank you,” I said, gazing at the coins in disbelief.
“I can take some of it back, if you like,” she said, reaching out her fat fingers, ready to pinch a dime away. “Perhaps I gave you too much?”
I closed my hand and shoved the coins deep into my pocket. “No, ma’am,” I said, unsure whether she’d meant what she said.
Seeing my confusion, she laughed at me. The bird laughed right along with her, raucous and long, and then asked for more cake.
“There’s no bickering over price or pay with Mrs. Birnbaum,” Nestor had said. “Don’t ask her for anything and when she gives you your share, don’t you dare count it. It shows you trust her and she can trust you.”
Thinking she was done with me, I moved to get up from my stool. Before I could stand, she held up a hand to stop me. “Don’t leave just yet,” she said, pushing back her chair and exiting the room.
When she returned she came to my side, holding two shawls, one in either hand. The first was delicate and lovely, made of figured silk with lace along the edges. The second was fashioned from wool, and although its plaid had faded in one corner the garment was sturdy-looking all the way around. It was long and thick, and would make for a cozy blanket on cold autumn nights.
