by S. L. Stoner
“Medicine?” Sage echoed.
“You’ll see,” Terry responded and picked up his pace.
Twelve
Their pace slowed as they walked deep into the seediest part of the North End. Except for the intermittent flicker of weak gaslights, the night was black from a heavy overcast. Misty rain began soaking their clothes.
When they reached a ramshackle wood-frame building, Terry stepped onto its low stoop and knocked three times on a metal-clad door. It opened and a skeletal hand reached through the narrow opening to take the envelope Terry held out. “Wait,” a husky voice commanded and the door slammed shut. Even though he knew the answer, Sage started to ask what was happening but Terry quickly interjected, “Not here.”
A minute later the door opened and the hand reappeared. This time it held a small brown glass vial. Terry took it, and even before he’d stowed it in his coat pocket, the door slammed shut.
Terry turned and hurried away. It was only after they’d rounded the corner that the boy exhaled and took a gulp of air. Sage tugged at Terry’s arm to slow him down and said, “What the hell was that all about?”
Terry glanced around and stepped over to stand under one of the street’s few gas lamps. The light was weak but bright enough that Sage saw the boy pull out a glass vial, unscrew its top and spill two dark brown, round balls into his palm. “It’s opium. She makes me fetch it all the time,” he told Sage, after tipping the balls back into the vial and tucking it back into his pocket.
Terry turned and started walking. To Sage’s surprise, the boy kept talking. “At night, mostly we run errands for the whorehouses. Speedy has them wired up so they can just call when they want a messenger. They send us to get opium and liquor and food and other stuff. She always asks for me.” Bitter contempt coated the word “she”.
“Are there a lot of those types of errands?”
“We are busier at night doing them than the day shift messengers. That’s why Prang hired you. We’re always short of night messengers. Nobody wants to work nights. Normally, he only uses kids like me. Guess he thinks we’ll keep our traps shut.”
“You know, Terry, it sounds like you hate this job.”
“If my mother found out what Speedy has me doing it would break her heart.” Sage sidewise glance caught the glint of unshed tears in the boy’s eyes.
“Are all the messenger services like Speedy?” Sage asked.
This question brought a vehement shake of the head. “Nope. Speedy’s the worst. Western Union and ADT, they do mostly telegrams and business messages. A year ago, ADT pulled all its wires out of the whorehouses. And Mr. Hayes, at Hasty Messenger, he won’t have nothing to do with whorehouses or saloons.”
“So why don’t you get a job with one of those companies?”
Terry went silent, leaving only the sound of their boots on the boardwalk. Sage was debating whether to ask the same question again when Terry said, “I can’t quit,” his voice heavy with pain, frustration, and finality.
Sage glanced down at his companion. The boy’s mouth was set in a narrow line. Something told Sage it would be useless to dig for more.
Back at the red-curtained whorehouse, Vera Clark swooped out of the parlor into the hallway with her hand outstretched the minute Mirabelle ushered them across the threshold. Terry handed her the vial and she handed him the 25 cents and a half dollar more for a tip. Terry doffed his cap, said, “Thank you, ma’am” and then they were heading out the door as her voice called after them, “Sure you don’t want another show, my little man?” Her mocking question was accompanied by a high pitched cackle.
As they headed back to the office Sage asked, “She do that often, let her clothes fall open.”
“Every time. She thinks it’s funny. Some boys refused to do her errands.”
“Why don’t you?”
Again the silence and again, “I can’t.”
Vera Clark’s errands signaled the end of Sage’s “training.” When they returned to the office all but two of the messengers were out. “It’s about time,” Kimble growled when they stepped through the door. “Tobias, they want you over at Florinda’s for an errand.”
From the look on Terry’s face, it was evident Florinda’s establishment was akin to Vera Clark’s. Still, the boy took the message and left without a word.
Kimble turned to Sage. “You. I’m sending you out to Mount Tabor Village. You catch the trolley named “Montevilla” out to the Village but you’ll have to get back best you can—since I doubt the trolley’ll be running that late. Mrs. Goodsby wants you to do something for her. She says to hurry up, it’s important.”
The two other messengers started snickering until Kimble turned a scowl on them. “You tell Mrs. Goodsby that the charge is 75 cents plus a delivery charge of 30 cents for the trolley since she lives so far out. Be sure you get the payment before you perform the errand.” Again the snickers came.
Sage caught the trolley and rode three miles to the suburban village. Once at the address, a frantic woman greeted him. “My husband’s over an hour late coming home from work. I know something bad’s happened to him. I need you to trace his route and find him. I’d go but I have a newborn and can’t go out in the rain with her.”
Sage was dumbfounded and could only repeat, “You want me to find your husband?”
“Yes, yes, and please hurry.”
“My boss says I have to get the money before I do the errand.” Sage felt bad asking for money from the distraught woman. Still . . .
“Here, here,” she said, taking coins from her pocket and handing them over. Just as Sage reached the gate he spied a man hurrying up the dark street at a dog trot. The woman, still on her porch, also saw the man. With a cry she ran down the steps, pushing past Sage. “Verling, where were you? I’ve been frantic with worry.”
When Verling Goodsby saw Sage in his messenger cap, he asked his wife, “You called a messenger to find me?”
She nodded and said, “I had no choice. I couldn’t leave the baby and with this weather, if you were injured, laying somewhere—” her explanation trailed off.
Her husband laughed, gave her a little squeeze and then turned to Sage. “She pay the charge already?” he asked. At Sage’s nod, the man pulled a dollar out of his pocket and said, “Keep it for a tip. Sorry to get you all the way out here for nothing.”
Sage took the tip and departed, figuring that the beer on the husband’s breath explained both his tardiness and his generosity. Given the snickers he’d heard at the office, this wasn’t the first time Mrs. Goodsby had summoned a messenger to find her tarrying husband. And, it probably wouldn’t be the last.
The rest of the night brought equally strange errands. One had been a stranded kitten up a tree, its mewing keeping the householder awake. She explained she was too old to climb the tree herself.
Next came a woman who also had both baby and tardy husband. In this instance, the woman wanted to go find the man herself, leaving Sage to watch the child. She carefully instructed him on what to do if the baby cried, showing him a bottle of milk with a hose attached. The infant woke up thirty minutes after the mother left. Sage confidently stuck the tube in its mouth but the kid didn’t stop squalling with his mouth so wide open Sage feared a dislocated jaw.
Sage cradled the screaming infant and paced the floor. It didn’t calm him. After about an hour he struck on the idea that a diaper pin might be the problem. He undressed the kid but discovered the pins were secure. Still, he wrapped the naked kid in a blanket and laid him on the bed, deciding to just let him howl.
Just then the mother walked in the door. When she saw the baby without clothes she turned mad as a hornet. “Just exactly what have you been doing to my child?” she demanded.
After Sage explained, she calmed down. “Oh! You poor man. He’s had a touch of colic. Here, I’ll pay you extra,�
�� she said, handing him the delivery fee and fifty cents.
The last errand of the night came near dawn and was another one of those “hurry up, it’s awful important” calls. When he reached the house on Clinton Street, the woman led him through to a window overlooking its backyard. With a trembling finger, the woman pointed at a cow browsing her back garden. “Please get that dreadful cow out of my yard. She’s eating up all my flowers and shrubbery. 1 tried to drive her out but she just shook her head at me and pawed the ground.”
Though unfamiliar with bovines, Sage did his best and soon the cow was trotting down Clinton in mooing outrage over an interrupted breakfast.
Kimble was at his table when Sage’s shift was over. “There’s been no complaints. You passed the test,” he said with a snicker.
“What do you mean?” Sage asked, though suspecting he knew the answer.
“I gave you the farthest and worst errands and you didn’t quit or make a customer mad,” Kimble answered. “You come on back this evening.”
As Mae would say, Sage’s tail was dragging when he left Speedy Messengers. He’d gone sleepless the day before. He dreaded the climb up Mozart’s hidden staircase to the third floor. He’d gone a block when he remembered the cap. “Damn,” he groaned, and turned back the way he’d come.
He entered the alley but as he reached for the cap he heard a commotion at the alley’s other end. Peering down its shadowy length he saw three figures standing over another on the ground. He crept forward, stepping softly on his toes.
“Whatsa matter Terry? Cat got your tongue? Where the hell is Dougie? We thought he was your friend. Your best friend!” The declaration was punctuated by a not too gentle toeing of Terry’s ribs.
“I don’t know. Honest,” came Terry’s voice.
A second accusatory voice sounded, “You lied to us. You promised us. Now your nose is so far up Kimble’s hind end that you can’t see daylight.”
Sage was now close enough to recognize the standing boys as Terry’s co-workers. They were taking jealousy a bit too far. “Hey,” he called. “What’s going on here?”
All three turned toward him and Terry’s face peered out from under the arm he’d curled over his head for protection. His nose was bloody.
The three strode towards him, their hands at their sides, clearly not intending to attack. Two brushed past him without speaking while the third paused to say, “Why don’t you ask Terry? Maybe he’ll tell you lessen shame ties his tongue.” The boy stepped around Sage and all three disappeared around the corner.
Sage helped Terry to his feet. Other than a bloody nose, and a grimace that suggested bruised ribs, the boy looked to be alright. “What was that about?” Sage asked him.
Terry shook off Sage’s hand, saying, “Nothing. It was about nothing.” Without a further word, he stumbled away, leaving Sage alone in the alley.
What the hell is going on? Sage wondered. This time, he’d only gone a few paces up the street before he remembered the cap. Retrieving it, he made sure his two fingers held it far from his body.
Mae was waiting for him. Before she said anything he said, “Ma, I left a cap on the back stoop. It needs dunking in boiling water to kill the bugs. Could you do that for me? I’m so tired, I feel like that cow I chased must have trotted over me.”
She visibly choked back her questions. For that he was grateful. Still, she did have a piece to say but she said it quietly and without demand. “Matthew didn’t go to school today or yesterday. He claims he’s sick but Ida says that’s not true. I don’t think we can put this off much longer. Last night, she scorched the potatoes and charred the beef roast.”
“Later, Ma. Later,” he mumbled, as he crawled into bed fully clothed.
Thirteen
Drizzle soaked her coat as Mae slid down the muddy trail into Sullivan’s Gulch. Overhead, the early afternoon’s hidden sun glowed from behind pearly gray clouds. Reaching the bottom, she carefully picked her way along the slippery path, keeping far from the edge of the roiling, brown creek. There was no one about although muted voices sounded from behind the weathered boards. The steady rain kept people hunkered down inside their shacks.
Carrie Lynne snatched the door open only to have the hope shining in her face vanish when she saw Mae. Still, she summoned a smile and politely said, “Mrs. Clemens, please come in out of the rain,” as she opened the door wider. “We ate real good last night, thanks to you.” This time her smile was genuine and her eyes earnest.
“Why, Carrie Lynne, how nice of you to tell me that. I am so glad,” Mae said as she stepped inside to the sound of rain pinging into tin cans scattered across the dirt floor. The day’s damp air seemed colder and more penetrating here than it had outside. Mary Tobias lay shivering beneath new-looking blankets.
An adolescent boy was sitting on a stool at the table. The colorful chaos of the artificial flowers before him said he’d taken over his mother’s task. A wooden produce crate close by a rusty pot-bellied stove held the kicking, gurgling infant. With its fat cheeks and rosy skin, it looked to be the best fed and healthiest of the shack’s inhabitants.
Mae grabbed the only empty stool and put it next to Mary’s bed. Turning to Carrie Lynne she said, “I brought some tea, can you make us all a pot?” The little girl took the bag and was soon busying herself with the kettle, water, and various cups.
Mary stared at Mae with feverish eyes. Mae put a hand on the woman’s arm and said, “Mary, how are you this afternoon?”
Panic seemed to fill the poor woman’s face. “I’m real sick. I can’t seem to get my legs to hold me up, anymore.” She punctuated her statement with a long coughing spell that bloodied the rag she held against her mouth.
Mae looked away to give the woman privacy and her eyes fell on the boy. Her heart twisted at the tear tracks on his face. “You must be Terry,” she said. When the boy nodded, she continued, “I came to tell you that Dr. Lane will soon be here to see your mother today. If he agrees, we’d like to take her to the new TB sanatorium.
“No, no, I have to stay here,” Mary gasped. “My children need me.”
Terry stood and crossed to sit on the bed beside his mother. “Ma, if you don’t get help—” His voice cracked and he leaned over to bury his face in her neck. When he straightened he said, “I can look after the kids.”
“But, Glad,” she began, only to stop when his hand on her shoulder gave a warning squeeze.
“Glad will come back from Uncle Charlie’s soon,” he said soothingly.
Mae rolled her eyes but held her tongue. To hear this family tell it, Glad was spending his days flitting among a whole flock of nearby relatives. Funny how none of them were turning up to help the family out.
Clearing her throat, Mae said, “Mary, Mrs. Trumbull is also coming with Doc Lane. She knows how important your children are to you. She has some ideas on how to keep them safe while you’re in the sanatorium.”
Mary looked hopeful while Terry’s chin jutted forward. Mae jumped in to quell his objection. “Now, Terry, you can’t expect Carry Lynne to stay here all night taking care of the baby while you run messages all over town. It isn’t safe. Let’s hear what Mrs. Trumbull has to say before you refuse, okay?”
As though summoned by Mae’s words, a knock rattled the shack’s flimsy door. Again, Carrie Lynne served as the family’s greeter and soon Millie Trumbull and a strange man crowded into the little shack.
Mae took a deep breath, readying herself to confront any discourtesy from the doctor. Sage had warned her about Doc Lane’s gruffness. She glanced at Mary’s pale face and resolved that, if she had anything to say, Lane would not worsen the poor woman’s distress.
Still, she got up from the stool and gestured for the doctor to take her place. She didn’t move so far away that she couldn’t hear everything he said. “Hello there, Mr
s. Tobias,” he said, in a voice so calm and gentle that immediately reassured Mae. Maybe Lane’s gruffness only surfaced when he dealt with people who weren’t patients.
Mary’s weak smile in greeting encouraged the doctor to continue. “I’d like to listen to your chest and take your temperature if I may?” Once she nodded, he turned around to the four of them and said, kindly, “Do you think you can give her some privacy while I listen to her chest?”
The four of them promptly retreated to the other side of the room and turned their backs to the bed. Mae was glad he hadn’t sent them outside because the drizzling rain was now a tin-rattling deluge.
Soft murmuring came from the bed in the corner. That and the sound of the rain overhead gave both sides of the room some privacy. Mae decided to move things along, knowing Terry was likely to be the stumbling block when it came to the children. “Mrs. Trumbull, could you tell Terry what can be done to keep the children safe while their mother is in the sanatorium recovering?”
Millie turned her warm brown eyes on Terry who looked lost, frightened and very young. “What’s the baby’s name?” she asked gently.
“Emma Jane,” came the somewhat grudging answer.
“Emma. I’ve always loved that name. I have a dear cousin with that name,” she said with a smile before turning serious. “Terry, I can understand that you’re worried about Carrie Lynne and Emma Jane. Am I right in thinking that the most important thing is to keep you all together and make sure that your sisters are safe, warm and fed?”
Terry’s nod, though tentative, was still an assent so Millie continued, “I am not going to lie to you. Your mother is very ill. It could take her as long as six months to get better. And, Mrs. Clemens here tells me that you are the sole breadwinner these days and that you have to be gone all night. Surely you can see that your little sister shouldn’t be left alone to care for the baby.”
The boy’s eyes filled with tears. Mae ached to put an arm around him but didn’t. He was trying so hard to be brave and older than his years. Sympathy would only weaken his grasp on himself.
