Bicycle Built for Two

by Duncan, Alice

  “Oh, dear.” The nun sighed deeply. “Miss Kate was here a few minutes ago, but she’s left already.”

  “She’s gone?” It was all Alex could do to resist reaching for Mrs. Finney’s hand.

  “Yes.” The nun laughed softly. “After giving us strict orders on the care of her mother. As if we could do any more than we’re doing.”

  He couldn’t stand it any longer. He took Mrs. Finney’s hand. It was small and dry and it made him want to holler. “Calm down, ma’am,” he said, striving for a gentleness he didn’t feel. In truth, he felt savage. “Miss Finney has gone home.”

  Hearing a new voice seemed to stir Mrs. Finney. Her eyes opened, and she turned her head to search for the voice. As he knelt beside her, Alex got the strong impression of a man up to his thighs in quicksand. If he didn’t wriggle out soon, he feared he’d be in way over his head.

  Nevertheless, he spoke in a soft, quiet voice. “It’s all right, Mrs. Finney. My name is Alex English. I—ah—work with your daughter.”

  A smile transformed Mrs. Finney’s features. Alex thought he could detect the girl she used to be in that smile, and it made him want to add a few curses to his holler. She’d probably looked like Kate when she was young. Say, a hundred years ago, or so.

  But that probably wasn’t so. She might be only in her early forties. Perhaps even her late thirties. It had been life that had withered Mrs. Finney. Damn, damn, damn.

  “You know my Katie?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He decided to leave it at that, since he was certain his opinion of Kate Finney differed considerably from Kate’s mother’s opinion of her.

  “She’s a good girl, my Katie. She takes care of me, you know.”

  Not very damned well, Alex thought, knowing as he did so that he was being unfair to both women.

  What had Kate said to him? Something about women having a hard time making a living in this world? Ah, yes. It was something like that. And then he’d told her she ought to get married. He cringed to remember that conversation now, as he held Mrs. Finney’s hand. How could he have tossed her such a flippant suggestion? Kate had been right about marriage in her mother’s case. It hadn’t been her salvation; it had probably been her doom. Small wonder Kate didn’t want to get married.

  “It’s so nice of you to visit me, Mr. English.”

  Mrs. Finney’s voice was soft and harsh, as though it hurt coming out of her mouth. Alex forced himself to smile at the sick woman. “Nonsense. I wanted to meet you.”

  Her eyes opened wider. “You did? I mean . . . How kind of you.”

  Alex was beginning to react negatively to that word, kind, perhaps because he’d begun to reevaluate his own claim to own it. Was he kind? He’d always thought so. Perhaps, however, his own brand of kindness didn’t deserve the name. He’d made it a point to contribute to charitable causes. He’d always donated surplus foodstuffs grown on his farms to the Chicago soup kitchen run by some Catholic order or another. He couldn’t even remember the name of it.

  Was that true kindness? For only a second, Alex tried to envision his own revered mother in this horrible cot in this horrible ward. He couldn’t bear it much longer.

  Yet Kate Finney bore it all day, every day. Kate, who was half his size, but who had the determination of a lioness, worked at two very odd jobs in order to keep her mother in food and away from her brutal husband.

  Suddenly Alex felt extremely small—about half the size of Kate Finney, in actual fact.

  “Have you seen my Katie dance, Mr. English?”

  The question took Alex aback, mainly because he had trouble justifying the note of pride he heard in Mrs. Finney’s voice. “Er . . . Yes. I watched her performance this evening, in fact.”

  Mrs. Finney nodded, as if she were pleased that her daughter was exhibiting herself so shockingly to the public. “She taught herself how to dance that way after watching that other dancer. The foreign girl. What do they call her?”

  “Little Egypt.”

  “Yes. That’s the one. My Katie only saw her once, and when they posted a notice that they were looking for another dancer to fill in for her—she’s become very popular, I guess—”

  “Yes,” Alex confirmed. “She has.” He tried to keep the note of condemnation out of his voice.

  “Yes.” Mrs. Finney sighed. “My Katie practiced for a day and a night, and then she marched right over there and danced for the men who were doing the hiring—and they hired her! Just like that.”

  “Ah.” Alex didn’t know what else to say.

  Mrs. Finney sighed again. “She bought me a woolen scarf that night with the money she made. I didn’t really need one, because I still had one, but Katie said it was old and moth-eaten, and she gave me the new one. It’s so pretty.”

  Alex felt like dirt when tears trickled from the sick woman’s eyes. “That was nice of her.” Feeble. He assessed his comment as approximately as feeble as Mrs. Finney.

  “Oh, Katie’s more than nice. She’s been my salvation. And she takes care of her brothers, too.”

  “Good Gad.” Alex hadn’t meant to swear. He glanced quickly at the nun, but she’d turned away to resume her duties.

  “Thank you for visiting me, Mr. English.” Mrs. Finney broke into a spasm of coughs.

  Alex fumbled for a handkerchief, but he wasn’t quick enough. Blood oozed from the woman’s mouth, and his nerves nearly gave out. He’d never seen anything as pathetic as Kate Finney’s mother. She broke his heart. “Here,” he said gently, finally managing to haul his handkerchief from his pocket. “Use this, please.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Finney gasped between racking coughs. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to spoil anything so fine.”

  “Nonsense. It’s yours. I just gave it to you.”

  She tried and failed to smile at him. After another hard spasm, she gasped, “Thank you. You’re very good.” She seemed to collapse, and Alex knew she’d exhausted her puny strength.

  He rose, feeling more ghastly than he could remember ever feeling. “I’ll visit you again, Mrs. Finney.” He wanted to offer her luck. Or hope. Or something.

  But he couldn’t make himself lie to the woman. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “Thank you.”

  He barely heard her thanks. As soon as he figured he was out of her sight, Alex increased his speed. He was practically running by the time he got to the hospital’s business offices.

  # # #

  “What?” Kate stared at Sister Mary Evodius.

  “She’s been moved to a private room, Kate.” The nun beamed at her, as if she considered such a circumstance normal and nice.

  Kate knew better. “But . . .” She wasn’t even sure what to ask.

  “Your very agreeable friend made the arrangements,” Sister Mary Evodius said, still beaming.

  A benevolent beam was no less than Kate had come to expect from this source, but she still couldn’t account for the words she’d spoken. “Um . . . My agreeable friend? What agreeable friend? Which agreeable friend?” Kate had friends, sure, and they were all more or less agreeable, but not a single one of them could afford to move her mother into a private room.

  “That pleasant gentleman, Mr. English. He came here last night shortly after you left.”

  “Mr. . . .” But Kate couldn’t say it. She couldn’t think it. Shoot, she couldn’t even conceive of Alex English—that was the only Mr. English she knew, and he wasn’t anywhere even approaching agreeable—doing something so generous for her mother.

  Unless he planned to kick her out of the Columbian Exposition, and was doing this as a salve to his conscience. Kate sucked in a gulp of air.

  Sister Mary Evodius peered at her closely. “Is something the matter, Kate? Are you unwell?”

  “Unwell?” Kate blinked at the nun, wondering what she was talking about. “No. I’m fine, thanks.” Or she would be once she figured out what in Hades was going on here. “Do you know what room Ma’s in, Sister?”

  “I believe they wheeled
her to number 22A, dear, although you might want to check at the front desk.”

  “22A. All right.” Kate nodded briskly. “Thanks!” She waved at the nun as she turned and hot-footed it out of the Charity Ward. Taking Sister Mary Evodius’s advice, Kate stopped at the front desk. Any time she had to face a person in an official capacity—any official capacity—Kate put on her toughest demeanor. She knew what the general lot of women in this world was, and she didn’t aim to be the recipient thereof.

  Her tone of voice on this occasion was so sharp, she made the young man at the desk jump and turn the pages in his registry book so fast, some of them crinkled under his flying fingers. Kate was satisfied with this response. If it had been anything less brisk, she’d have had to get sarcastic. Over the years, Kate had developed a blistering tongue to go with her brusque manner. She was proud of both attributes, because they disguised her feelings of inferiority rather well.

  Sister Mary Evodius had been right. Kate had wasted a lot of time in the hospital, but she needed to see her mother before she went to work. Maybe Ma knew what had possessed Alex English to pay for a private room. Kate visited every morning and every evening when her mother’s tuberculosis got out of control and she had to remain in the hospital for a time. Unfortunately, Mrs. Finney’s hospital stays had become more frequent of late.

  Kate found herself tiptoeing as she approached Room 22A. She’d never been in this part of Saint Mildred’s. This was where the rich people stayed. Kate felt out of place and nervous, although she didn’t show it. She paused in front of the door to 22A, wondering if she was supposed to knock. Rich people liked their privacy—and they could pay for it.

  “Aw, heck,” she muttered at last. And squaring her shoulders, she shoved the door open so hard, the door handle bumped against the wall. “Blast it.” She hadn’t meant to push it that hard.

  Her precipitate entry woke her mother with a start that set her to coughing. Kate felt terrible. Rushing to Mrs. Finney’s side, she hurried to apologize. “I’m sorry, Ma. I had a hard time finding you this morning.”

  Mrs. Finney pressed a handkerchief to her lips, but Kate saw she was smiling in spite of everything. She reached for the hand not holding the hankie. “I’m real sorry, Ma. Didn’t mean to make so much noise.”

  Her mother only shook her head, a gesture Kate knew was meant to reassure her. It didn’t, but Kate wouldn’t let on. Instead, she glanced around the room. “Say, this is swell.” Her heart hurt a little, although she couldn’t have said why. She wasn’t jealous that Alex English could provide her mother with better medical care than she could. Was she?

  Kate, who didn’t think it was a good idea to fool oneself because life was hard enough even when you admitted your foibles and follies, wasn’t sure. She’d have to think about it. But she really didn’t think it was jealousy, per se, that made her heart hurt. She thought rather that the pain was a manifestation of her limited ability to cope effectively with the cards life had dealt her.

  After her mother’s racking coughs stopped and she lay exhausted on the bed, smiling up at her daughter, Kate gave herself a hard mental shake. She didn’t want to upset her mother. “So, Ma, when did you move to these grand quarters?”

  “Last night. That wonderful Mr. English came to visit me right after you left, and he made the arrangements.”

  “Ah.” Kate hated to add, “That was nice of him.”

  “It was the kindest thing in the world, Katie. I don’t remember hearing you talk about him.”

  “No. I didn’t even know him until yesterday.” Should she have admitted that? Ah, nuts.

  Her mother looked puzzled. “Really? I’m surprised. I mean, I thought you and he were old friends.”

  “Now where would I meet a gent like him, Ma?” Kate laughed at the notion. “He’s rich, for Pete’s sake.”

  “I know.” Her mother’s washed-out blue eyes scrutinized Kate’s face until Kate would have blushed and squirmed if she did things like that. She didn’t. “But . . . Well, I guess I don’t understand, then, Katie. Why would he pay for a private room for me, of all people? He said the two of you worked together, but . . .”

  “Beats me, Ma, but I’m glad he did.” And she was going to find out the answer to her mother’s question, too, as soon as she could run Alex English to ground. Whether or not she explained the answer to her mother, Kate would decide later.

  “It’s too much, though.” Mrs. Finney’s gaze swept the room. “It’s too fine. It’s too good for me.”

  Kate bridled. “Nothing’s too good for you, Ma, darn it! It’s not your fault we’re poor.”

  Mrs. Finney sighed and started coughing again. Kate winced inside, although she kept her cheerful demeanor in place. When she’d quit hacking, Mrs. Finney whispered, “Of course, it’s not, dear.”

  Kate patted her hand, but Mrs. Finney still seemed distressed. “It’s my fault I married your father, though, Katie. If that wasn’t wrong, it was at least stupid. And even you have to admit it was a horrible mistake.”

  “Oh, Ma, hush up about that. You didn’t know what he was like when you married him.”

  “I knew soon enough afterwards that I should have done something, though.”

  “Don’t be daft. What could you have done?” Kate hated when her mother blamed herself for things. Everyone knew that women were the slaves of men, even in the United States, where life was supposed to be easier than it was anywhere else and where slavery wasn’t supposed to exist any longer. Kate knew better. Maybe women didn’t have to walk around veiled from head to toe, as Little Egypt had told Kate Egyptian women were forced to do, and maybe they weren’t shackled to their husbands, but women in the good old U. S. of A. had precious few rights of their own.

  If Kate’s mother had left her father, and if her father had wanted to, he could have kept Kate and her brothers. He’d probably have done it, too, the monster. Her father didn’t give a rap about any of his kids, but he’d have kept them in order to torment Hazel Finney. He was like that, the son of a gun.

  “Oh, Katie, I’m so sorry.”

  “About what?” Kate asked briskly. Sometimes she deemed it appropriate to nip these guilty apologies from her mother in the bud in order to avert a frenzy of self-recrimination. None of her family’s misery was Mrs. Finney’s fault. Kate knew it, if her mother didn’t. “About trying to do your best? If you keep apologizing, Ma, I’m going to have to take steps.”

  As usual, when Kate pretended to get on her high horse, her mother’s worries seemed to fade. She smiled at her daughter. “You’re a jewel, Katie. You’re the best daughter any mother ever had.”

  “I doubt that.” Kate wrinkled her nose. This time, Mrs. Finney chuckled softly. Kate held her breath, but her mother didn’t start coughing. Thank God, thank God. “Say, Ma, I’ve got to get to work. Gotta tell those fortunes, you know.”

  “I wish I could watch you work, Katie. I’m sure you make a beautiful Gypsy.”

  “I make a pretty silly-looking Gypsy, actually, but Madame lets me use her makeup, so I can darken my skin. Nobody seems to mind my blue eyes. Anyhow, the booth is dark, so they probably can’t even see them. It’s spookier that way.”

  “Ah, Katie, I love you so.”

  “I love you, too, Ma.” Kate rose, leaned over, and gave her mother a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll be back tonight, Ma. Don’t let ‘em give you any guff.”

  “Never.” Mrs. Finney chuckled again. “They wouldn’t dare. Not with you and Mr. English both looking after me.”

  “Right.” Kate waved merrily and left the room with her usual lightness and grace. As soon as she closed the door behind herself, she expelled a gust of breath and leaned against the wall for a moment.

  She hadn’t anticipated her own reaction to her mother’s new surroundings, but the truth of the matter was that she, Kate Finney, a young woman whose entire focus in this life was to overleap the barriers of her birth and class, was pure-D, absolutely, positively, no-doubts-about-it, intimi
dated by all this fancy stuff. She glanced at the walls in this wing of the hospital and noticed all the pretty pictures hanging there, and the bright white paint. Kate would have bet anything that the Charity Ward of Saint Mildred’s hadn’t been painted since the Civil War.

  This place scared her. She kept expecting some rich matron to walk out of one of the rooms adjoining that of her mother, observe Kate in the hall, and call a nurse or an orderly or somebody to escort her out. She didn’t belong here, with respectable people. Kate Finney wasn’t respectable. She was trash. People had been telling her so all her life, and no matter how much she denied the label, resented it, and rebelled against it, she believed it.

  She straightened and took on another cargo of air. Intimidation was no excuse for slacking. Nor was being trash. If Alex English was paying for that room, then even if Mrs. Hazel Finney didn’t deserve the benefits that came with first-class accommodations, Alex English’s money did, and Kate was going to be darned sure her mother got them. She marched to the nurse’s station, willing to be nice about it, but prepared for a fight if anyone challenged her.

  By the time she got to Madame Esmeralda’s booth at the fair, Kate felt as though she’d already worked a twelve-hour day. She heaved a sigh as big as she was when she saw Madame Esmeralda, dressed to the hilt in her Gypsy suit and swigging a carbonated beverage from one of the Exposition glasses the concessionaires sold on the Midway. Tossing her handbag onto a chair, Kate sank into another one.

  Madame cocked one black eyebrow. Kate wished she could do that: lift only one eyebrow at a time, because the gesture was great for quelling the opposition. She’d practiced, but she hadn’t succeeded yet in duplicating the eyebrow-lift properly.

  “Rough morning?” Madame asked.

  “Yeah.” Kate’s feet hurt, her head hurt, her heart hurt, and her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep.

  “How is your mother this morning?”

  Kate recognized Madame’s intensified expression as one of concern. Madame wasn’t like most of the people Kate knew. Whether she’d been through more rough times than most, or her attitudes were a product of her being a Gypsy, or what, Kate didn’t know, but Madame never fussed at her. Kate appreciated her for it. Madame didn’t dither, and she didn’t weep and wail. Madame was, in short, as practical a person as was Kate herself. “She’s okay. Mr. English moved her to a private room.” Since she couldn’t lift just one of her eyebrows, she raised both of them to let Madame know what she thought about that.