Bitter Cry

by S. L. Stoner

  “How?”

  “Well, the girl stays home but she looks after the kids of folks off working during the day. She and her mom turn out some of those paper flowers but that don’t get them but a few cents. The two boys do a bit better. The younger one sells newspapers and the older one works as a messenger.”

  “The boys are gone a lot?”

  “Yup, I see the older one fishing the creek sometimes, late afternoon. He works nights. Comes and goes mostly in the dark now it’s gone winter.”

  “I suppose the younger one works just the opposite hours?” Eich asked, hoping to spur her into talking about Glad. It worked.

  “Yeah, ‘cept I haven’t seen him the last few days. It’s kinda funny because he’s a kid that’s real regular. He leaves way early to pick up and sell his papers. About noontime, he comes back with food for the rest of them. After that, he sometimes goes to school. He says he loves school. Late afternoon, he goes out again selling to folks wanting evening papers and comes back around ten. Regular as clockwork, he is. Bright little fellow, too.”

  “But not lately, huh?”

  “Ain’t seen him. I finally asked his mother about him but she mumbled something about a pot burning on the stove ‘afore she scooted back inside like a bunny rabbit.” Her lips twisted and she confided, “That were a lie.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “No smoke coming out her chimney. Can’t nobody burn food on a cold stove,” Maisie said, crossing her arms across her chest to emphasize her point.

    

  Eich shook his cart bell vigorously until the door finally inched open to reveal a wan face peeking out from around the weathered boards.

  “Why, hello there, Carrie Lynne, is everything all right?” Eich’s voice was hearty and his smile wide. “Will you tell your mama that I have some very nice blankets on the cart today?”

  She nodded solemnly before closing the door. He listened and could hear the sound of voices, the high one of the little girl and the murmurs of the ill woman.

  The door opened once again. “Mama says she ain’t got but one penny to spare so we’ll have to pass on the blanket today.” Regret lowered the girl’s brows and set her lips to quivering. Eich glanced upward. No smoke drifted into the cloudy sky from the rusted stove pipe.

  “Well, isn’t that just great,” he said, making Carrie Lynne’s’ pale forehead wrinkle while she tried to comprehend why having only a penny was “great.”

  “It just so happens that I have two blankets that I can let you have for a single penny.”

  Skepticism filled the small face. “How come you’re giving us such a good deal?” she asked, putting her thought into words.

  “The thing is, little lady, blankets take up too much room on the cart. And right now, I’ve got too many of them. I need to get rid of a few so I have space for other things.”

  He could tell his explanation hadn’t eased her doubts. Sure enough, she said, “I’ll have to go ask mama,” and banged the door shut once again.

  When she returned it was to hold out a single tarnished penny. “Please, Mr. Eich, we’d like to buy those blankets.” The exchange made, Eich dug around in the cart and turned to her, a book in hand. “Last time I came through here I spoke to your brother, Glad. He said he liked to read. I found this book I thought he might enjoy. Is he maybe here so that I can give it to him personally?”

  To his dismay, tears flooded her pale eyes and she clutched the blankets so tightly that her fingers turned white. “No. Glad ain’t here.”

  “Maybe I can come back with the book later today when he’s home?” he prodded.

  She mutely shook her head and backed away. “Glad ain’t coming back today,” she said, as the tears began rolling down her cheeks.

  “Maybe I can just leave it with you to give to him when he returns?” he suggested gently, stepping forward. Either his question or his step forward drove her back into the house. Once she and the blankets were inside, she shook her head and said softly, “Thank you for the blankets, Mr. Eich,” before she closed the door, leaving Herman Eich standing on the muddy path, the well-worn book in his outstretched hand.

    

  They met up in the snug lean-to attached to the back of a small house beside another ravine, this one on the Willamette River’s west side. Eich’s home was smaller than the shacks in Sullivan’s Gulch but had a plank floor underfoot. Tightly chinked walls and a solid tin roof kept the heat from his pot-bellied stove inside. Sage had seen to the roofing and chinking while Eich was away recovering from nearly dying during one of their adventures.

  From his perch on a small stool, Sage studied the workbench where Eich repaired porcelain dishes, containers and figurines. Everything was tidy and in its place. A chipped and garishly painted chamber pot, standing front and center, was the ragpicker’s current project.

  “So, the boy, Glad, is not with his family?” Sage asked.

  Eich spoke with regret, “I’m afraid not. The family is desperately upset given what I saw of Carrie Lynne. I am sure they miss both him and his financial contribution.”

  “Well, now that we know he’s truly missing we can have Ma go a ‘visiting. You know her. Once she lands in their midst, things will be set right pretty quick.”

  Eich laughed. “She is a formidable woman, your mother,” he said with warm admiration.

    

  Mozart’s Table was quiet during the few hours between the end of the noontime meal and the beginning of teatime. “Okay then, I’ll skedaddle over to Millie Trumbull’s and find out what she can do to help. And, I’ll need to pick up some things before I head out to Sullivan’s Gulch,” Mae said. She started to stand up.

  “Whoa, Ma,” Sage said, putting a restraining hand on her forearm. “Let’s take this a step at a time. Go ahead and see Trumbull today. But wait until tomorrow for your visit to Sullivan’s Gulch. Herman insists he has to be there.”

  She bristled. “I can take care of myself! I’ve done so for many a year, if you recall.”

  He raised a calming hand and wasn’t surprised when she batted it away. He persisted with an explanation. “Herman has to point out which shack is theirs. We’re trying to keep our interest quiet. You can’t go knocking on doors asking where they are. Besides, he says it can be a rough place for strangers.”

  The fire in her eyes dimmed a bit but all she said was, “I guess I do need to know where to go.”

  “What do you plan on saying to Mrs. Trumbull?”

  She leaned forward, her irritation forgotten. “I’m going to tell her that I bought a paper from young Glad and he told me about how hard up his family was. I plan on saying the same thing to Mrs. Tobias when I give her the food. If she’s as sick as Glad told you, I figure she won’t have the strength to argue. Besides, she’s a mother. She’ll accept what’s best for her children even if it means putting up with a nosy stranger.”

  Five

  “My Lord, Ida! What in tarnation’s got you so upset?” Mae Clemens dropped her handbag and squatted beside Mozart’s cook. She put an arm around the small rotund woman who had her face buried in her hands as sobs shook her shoulders. Since Ida was always cheerful, this distress was alarming.

  Ida started and wiped her eyes with an apron corner before glancing at Mae with teary eyes. “It’s Matthew. I don’t know what’s got into him.”

  Matthew was Ida’s nephew. He lived with Ida and her husband, Knute, in the second-floor apartment. Ida’s double chin wobbled and she wailed, “He yelled at me!”

  Suppressing a groan and with loud knee cracks, Mae stood and took the seat across from Ida. Though it was early, a glance around the kitchen assured Mae that the pies were cooling and all was readied for the supper hour that was just hours away. Mae wouldn’t have to postpone her visit to Millie Trumbull though time remained tight. Still, she needed to fin
d out why Ida was so distressed.

  “You go ahead and tell me what happened,” she said, reaching across the table to touch the other’s woman’s hand.

  Ida sniffed and said, “He came in real late last night. He’s been doing that. And he won’t say where he’s been. If I ask, he tells me he’s been with his friends. And, I know that’s not true.”

  “You think he’s lying?”

  “I know he is because I saw his printer friend, Jimmy at the market. He told me that he hasn’t seen Matthew in days. And, he’s Matthew’s best friend. The poor boy’s feelings are hurt.”

  Ida straightened in her chair, her mouth a grim line before she said, “And, last night, Matthew came home with a bruise on his cheek and his shirt torn. When I asked what happened, he said he’d fallen off his bike.” She sniffed her disbelief.

  “Well, maybe he did fall.”

  The cook shook her head vigorously. “The shirt was torn at the buttons—like someone grabbed its front. His clothes on the side with the bruise were clean. It was raining last night. If he’d fallen, he’d have muddied up his clothes.”

  She drew a shuddering breath and looked about to burst into tears once again. “And then, this morning, when I asked him to be honest with me, he told me to mind my own business!” Her chins started wobbling but she gulped down the sob and said earnestly, “Mae, that’s not Matthew. He’s a sweet, sweet boy. Even during that terrible time, he was always kind and well-mannered.”

  Mae knew what time Ida meant. They all did. Matthew’s entry into their lives came about when he and his brother hitched a ride north on a train from their coastal town. Their adventure turned horrific when a brutal railroad bull killed Matthew’s brother. When someone stabbed the bull to death, the police charged Matthew with the murder. They’d finally straightened it all out but it had taken Matthew months to recover from the experience.

  But this last year had been better. The sixteen-year-old was attending school, and doing well. After school he made money delivering messages using a bicycle Sage had bought for him.

  “Has Knute tried talking to him?” Mae asked.

  Ida dismissed that idea with a wave of her hand. “Same thing, Matthew just mumbles some dumb excuse and goes into his room. Knute’s as worried as I am.”

  Ida’s Swedish husband was a kindly man who didn’t need distractions given his job. Knute made shingles which meant he fed cedar bolts through two saw blades at the same time. A single moment of inattention would mean disaster.

  Mae slapped her palms on the table and stood up. “Okay then. We’ll ask Mr. Adair to have a talk with him. You know how much Matthew admires him. He’ll get to the bottom of whatever’s troubling the boy. But, Mr. Adair’s headed out and about. I’ll tell him about it when he gets back. Don’t you worry, Ida. He’ll get this straightened out right quick.”

  Ida sucked in a deep breath and stood up. “Thank you, Mae. You and Mr. Adair are so good to us.” She smoothed down her apron and when she next spoke her tone was decisive. “Well, I best get busy. Those peas aren’t going to shuck themselves.” She tightened her apron strings and looked at Mae. “Thank you,” she said again, and stepped over to the stove.

  Mae stood, grabbed her handbag, slipped into her coat, slapped on her hat and headed out the kitchen door into the day’s watery sunlight. Ida wasn’t the only one running behind.

    

  No one can claim this building is fancy, Mae thought as she climbed the grubby linoleum-covered stairs to the second floor. She wandered down the hallway with only a dim gray light from an overhead skylight lighting her way. Discrete plaques displayed the names of labor unions until she reached a sign announcing the “Child Labor Commission.”

  “Sounds close enough,” Mae said aloud, and turned the doorknob. She stepped into a small room with filing cabinets on one side and a couple of hard-backed chairs on the other. A doorway opened into a small room lit by a single window. Through that open door, Mae saw a woman sitting in a chair facing a desk, her body craning forward even as her arms encircled two toddlers who leaned against her, one on each side.

  Mae couldn’t see who sat behind the desk but she recognized Millie Trumbull’s Midwest voice. So, she took a seat in the waiting room, hoping the lady’s business wouldn’t take long. She had to be back at Mozart’s before the five o’clock supper hour.

  On the walk over, she’d thought long and hard about Matthew’s strange behavior and reached the same conclusion. If anyone could get to the bottom of things, it was Sage, even if he had to trail the boy. Fong could help, too, once Kum Ho recovered. Fong’s note had said she had pneumonia. That was worrisome.

  The woman in the next room stood up, putting an end to Mae’s musing. As she and the kids passed by, Mae noted her raggedly thin coat and broken boots even though her children wore heavy coats and new galoshes. That woman’s sacrifice is plain to see, Mae thought approvingly.

  The large figure of Millie Trumbull appeared in the open doorway. A perplexed look crossed her broad face followed by one of recall.

  “Why, it’s Mrs. Clemens from Mozart’s isn’t it? It took me a minute to recognize you outside your element.”

  Mae stood and they shook hands. No one would call Millie Trumbull beautiful or pretty. Even handsome might be a stretch. But there was strength of character in her firm chin, the promise of intelligence in her wide forehead, and most of all, compassion in her large brown eyes.

  Mae laughed. “True, I don’t get out much.” Then she added soberly, “Mrs. Trumbull, I have a problem and was hoping you could advise me on how to solve it.”

  The broad forehead wrinkled and Trumbull said, “First of all, dear woman, call me, ‘Millie.’ Secondly, I have to be somewhere right now. Truthfully, I’m running late. Do you think you could tell me about it while we’re walking?”

  “I can come back.”

  “No, no. Actually, you can lend me a hand, if you will.” Even as she spoke, Millie was removing her coat and hat from a wall hook and donning them. Opening the door, she gestured Mae into the corridor and locked the door behind them.

  Upon reaching the street, Trumbull turned north and started walking as she said, “I’m inspecting workplaces for children. Ever since the law passed last year, I’ve been trying to make sure no children are working when they should be in school.”

  Mae had heard of the law, “Children under fourteen, isn’t it?”

  Millie nodded grimly, “We tried for sixteen but had to compromise to get the law passed. Still, employers try to sneak youngsters in. That’s where I am hoping you can help, Mrs. Clemens.”

  “I’d be happy to, Millie. But, please, call me, ‘Mae’.”

  “Well, then, Mae. I got a report that at least three children are working in the Renfrow Crackers factory when they should be in school. That devil of an owner knows me by sight. I’m sure he’s having someone hide the children while he stalls me in the front office. He’s got an ad in today’s paper for a lady worker. If you could go in asking about the job and maybe get a tour of the factory, you could come out and tell me if he has kids working there. Then, when I go in, I’ll know just how pushy to get and maybe where to look.”

  Mae rapidly calculated the time she had remaining. Millie misinterpreted her hesitation. “Oh my, what am I thinking? You come for help and the next thing you know, I’m asking you to partake in skullduggery. I do apologize. I can do the inspection and probably find the kids on my own.”

  Mae grabbed Millie’s forearm to bring her to a halt. As the woman turned toward her, Mae said, “Millie, I’d be honored to help you with this. I was hesitating only because I need to be back to Mozart’s before five o’clock. But, I think there’s enough time to engage in a little ‘skullduggery’.” She grinned, released Millie’s arm and the two started walking again.

  “Thank you, Mae,” Millie said. Taking a deep breath she co
ntinued, “Okay, suppose you tell me about your problem while we walk—we have a few blocks.”

  So Mae explained that a good friend had learned of Mrs. Tobias being sick and how three of her four children were supporting the whole family. Mae said one of the sons was a newsboy but she didn’t say the boy was missing.

  Millie was silent for at least half a block, then she began, “One of my big frustrations is that newsboys aren’t covered under the new law—they are ‘independent contractors’ according to the newspaper companies’ testimony before the legislature.”

  She walked a few more paces before saying thoughtfully, “There are things we can do for this lady, once you verify what you’ve heard. We just opened a TB sanatorium, south of Milwaukie Village. Dr. Lane is on our board. He could examine the lady with an eye to admitting her to the sanatorium. But, the problem is, the care costs $6 a week.”

  “The fees will not be a problem. I know someone who will donate the money. But, what’s it like there?”

  “We house the patients in canvas tents during the late spring through early fall. Once it gets cold, like now, there are little cabins for them to stay in. We have nurses on staff and visiting doctors. Our goal is to make sure they get good food and fresh air at all times,” Millie said.

  Mae pondered that idea before asking, “She has those four children. What happens to them? Can they live at the sanatorium with her?” Mae asked.

  Millie shook her head. “No, that’s not healthy for them. But I’m also secretary for the Boys and Girls Aid Society. The Society can house the children or maybe place them in foster homes until their mother is well enough to care for them.”

  Mae didn’t say anything. She wondered if Mrs. Tobias would agree to enter the sanatorium if it meant leaving her four children in the hands of strangers. The thought of that choice sent dread ice picking into Mae’s heart. Still,— “How long would they be separated do you think?” she asked.

  Millie raised both hands, palms up. “Who knows? Some people come out of the sanatorium after two months, some after six months and some die there. Until Dr. Lane examines this woman, we won’t know how sick she is. And, really, it’s up to God how long it will take for her to get well.”