What with the general hilarity of his home-coming and Mary Jo’s insistent questions about the World’s Columbian Exposition—”For heaven’s sake, Mary Jo, I told you I’m going to take you to the fair!” “Yes, but when, Alex?” “Soon, soon.”—it wasn’t until almost midnight, after his pesky sister had been trundled off to bed in spite of her protests, that Alex got the chance to talk to his mother.
“I met a girl, Ma.”
Mrs. English clasped her hands to her bosom and beamed at him. “Oh, Alex! I’m so happy for you. When are you going to bring her home to the family?”
Blast. He’d obviously begun this conversation the wrong way. “Not that kind of girl,” he hastened to assure his mother. “For heaven’s sake, Ma.” In spite of his embarrassment, he laughed.
“Oh.” His mother’s face fell. Then it looked worried. “Alex, you’re not taking up with the wrong sort, are you?”
“Wrong sort? What the devil—”
“Don’t swear!”
Alex rolled his eyes. It took approximately five seconds of being in his mother’s company for him to turn from am almost-thirty-year-old man into a five-year-old boy again. “Sorry, Ma. But, no, I’m not taking up with the wrong sort. And I’m not about to marry the girl I just met.” What an uncomfortable life that would be.
Only seconds later, it came as a shock to Alex to realize that he’d pop anyone in the jaw if they dared question Kate or Bill Finney’s moral worth. How had that happened? And when? Good Lord. He’d better start watching his step around the Finneys, or anything might happen. He shuddered at the thought.
“Good.” His mother patted him on the knee. “I hope you won’t marry anyone for a while yet, Alex. I think you need a little . . .” She stopped speaking.
Alex frowned. “I need a little what?”
She patted him on the knee. “Alex, you’re the best son any mother could have, and I love you dearly. I know you’re a generous, kind-hearted man, too, but . . .” She stopped talking again.
Dash it, if she was going to tell him he was turning into a fussy old man, as Gil MacIntosh had, Alex might just have to do something. He didn’t know what. “What, Ma?” he demanded. “Do you think I’m a selfish pig, too?”
His mother’s eyes opened up until they looked like blue marbles against a white background. “Alex! Whatever are you talking about? You’re no more selfish than I am a Greek! It’s only . . . Oh, Alex, I don’t know. It’s only that you sometimes act as though you’ve forgotten there are other, less fortunate, people in the world.”
“Good Gad,” he muttered. “Not you, too.”
She smiled sadly. “Please don’t hate me for saying that. Nobody could be kinder or more generous to his family than you are, Alex.”
He gazed at his mother, feeling abused and put-upon for several seconds. He didn’t know what to say. Anyhow, if he had become, perhaps, the least little bit complacent in his success, any hint of complacency had been battered out of him by the Finney family, blast them. “Believe me, I know there are less fortunate people in the world, Ma.” He did now, at any rate.
“I’m sure of it.”
Detecting a lack of sincerity in his mother’s tone, Alex felt himself getting peeved. “Are you through, Ma?” he asked rather stiffly.
“Oh, there, now, I’ve hurt your feelings. Alex, please forget I said anything. I didn’t mean it. You’re the kindest, most wonderful boy in the world, and I should be ashamed of myself for even mentioning . . .”
There she went again. She didn’t want to tell him to his face that he was a selfish, uncaring son of a bitch. At least Kate Finney didn’t have any trouble expressing herself when it came to enumerating his shortcomings.
“Please, Alex, forget I said anything.”
A likely chance of that happening. Nevertheless, Alex inclined his head in acquiescence and decided to let his mother off the hook. After all, she was his mother. “But I need to ask you something, Ma.”
“Certainly, my dear. What is it?”
He wondered how old Hazel Finney was. From the respective ages of the Finney and English children, Alex imagined she was a good deal younger than his own mother. She looked at least thirty years older. Life certainly didn’t play favorites.
So Alex told his mother about the Finneys, putting most of the emphasis on Mrs. Finney. He didn’t have to exaggerate when describing her condition or her life, a fact that struck him as unfortunate. “Anyhow, I wondered if you’d be willing to have the Finneys visit you over a weekend, Ma. I don’t think Mrs. Finney has much longer to live.”
It didn’t surprise him that, before he was halfway through with his story, his mother had to dab at the tears leaking from her eyes. His mother was a very compassionate, kindhearted woman. He’d inherited his own compassionate, kindhearted nature from her. He wished he could get Kate Finney to acknowledge that, dash it. And his mother.
“Oh, Alex, I’d be happy to welcome the poor woman here. And her daughter, too. Poor dear thing, having to work so hard to keep body and soul together and support her mother, and all.” She blew her nose with a good deal of vigor and smiled tremulously at her son. “You’re such a good man, Alex. I knew you’d grow into your legacy.”
Whatever that meant. Alex said, “Hmmm.”
His mother went on, “I just hate to think of people living like that. I hope they’ll stay for several days. I’m sure Miss Finney can use a rest from her many duties and chores and jobs.”
Uh-oh. “Um, if Miss Finney comes, too, there are a couple of things you probably ought to know.”
His mother lifted tear-drowned eyes and gazed at him. “What things, dear?”
She’s a hard-nosed, sarcastic, ill-natured, contemptuous witch. Alex knew he couldn’t say that. “Um, Miss Finney tends to be a little defensive about her relative lot in life.” He was proud of that sentence.
His mother, as he might have expected, read between the lines. “The poor dear thing! Of course, she is. Why, if she grew up on those horrid streets, she must have learned how to be as hard as nails in order to survive!”
“You hit it on the head, Ma.” Now Alex was proud of his mother.
Mrs. English’s glance sharpened considerably. “I wasn’t always your father’s wife, you know, Alex. I lived through some mighty hard times before we were married.”
Good Gad. “But—but— Surely, you didn’t—”
“Grow up in the slums of a big city? No.” Mrs. English smiled gently. “But there are plenty of poor people outside of cities, Alex.” She heaved a big sigh. “I was so happy to get away from my own poverty that I sometimes think I didn’t give you children a broad-enough picture of the world and of life. That’s what I was trying to tell you before. But you’ve learned for yourself, through the Finneys, I suppose.” She shook her head and looked as if she were recalling unpleasant, far-away times. “It’s no fun being poor and hungry, Alex, believe me.”
Good Gad again. “Ah, I didn’t know you went through that sort of thing, Ma. You were poor?”
“Dirt poor.”
The same words that applied to Kate Finney. Would wonders never cease? He tilted his head and peered at his mother with renewed interest. He’d always loved her. She was his mother, for heaven’s sake. But he’d never actually thought of her as a—well, as a person. He imagined most people failed to take their parents’ humanity into consideration when they thought about them.
“You grew up in Kentucky, didn’t you?”
Mrs. English nodded. “Yes. Near Bowling Green. My mother and father had moved there from New England as pioneers in the thirties. It was a hard life, Alex.” She heaved a sigh and her face took on a thoughtful cast. “Although, I must say that I think growing up poor in the country must be at least a little nicer than growing up poor in a big city.”
“Why?” As far as Alex was concerned, poverty anywhere would probably be uncomfortable, to say the least, and not at all something to be desired.
“I’m not sure. Perhaps
because there are all the green growing things in the country. One can grow one’s food, and my brothers used to shoot birds and game to keep meat on the table.”
“Maybe. But you don’t have the museums and art galleries and so forth. Libraries. Culture. You know what I mean.”
The expression of humor that lighted his mother’s eyes didn’t give him any comfort at all. “Alex, do you really believe that Miss Finney and her mother have time to visit art galleries and museums? You’ve already told me that Miss Finney has to work at two jobs. I have a feeling most poor people in the city are too busy working to appreciate culture very much.”
“Maybe. Not to mention dodging their fathers.”
Drat. Alex knew he’d made a mistake as soon as he saw his mother’s eyes pop open and the look of shock on her face.
“Their fathers? What do you mean?”
With a sigh, Alex told her.
His mother lifted a hand to her own throat. “Good heavens. You mean he tried to kill his own daughter?”
“Miss Finney says he’s a drunkard. I guess she’s spent the last several months trying to hide her mother from him.”
“Good heavens. That poor child. How horrid.”
Yeah, as Kate Finney might say. It was horrid, all right. He gave a little start when his mother grabbed his arm and held on tight.
“Alex, you must be sure he doesn’t get into the hospital.”
Alex blinked at her. “Ah . . .”
“You must! And do bring her here, please. Bring both of them. You must, Alex. You know you must.”
“Um, I guess so. That’s what I wanted to ask you.”
He reflected that getting his mother to agree to his scheme hadn’t been difficult at all. In fact, he anticipated having more trouble persuading Kate to go for it.
On Monday morning, when his big, expensive traveling coach headed back toward Chicago, he began plotting strategy.
Chapter Six
Kate knew that if she didn’t get some sleep soon, she’d fall over in a heap. Then what good would she be to her mother? None, that’s what. She yawned anyhow.
Madame eyed her with a mixture of amusement and concern. “Kate, what did you do yesterday? Did you work again? I told you to rest on Sundays. You need your rest.”
“I know, I know.” Kate yawned again. “But when the White Stockings play in town, they pay a lot of money to the people who throw bags of peanuts to the folks who watch the game. And yesterday they played a double-header.” Discerning from Madame’s expression of confusion that she didn’t know what a double-header was, she elaborated. “That’s when they play two ball games in one day.”
“How nice,” Madame muttered. “Your health is worth considerably more than a few measly dollars, Kate. If you don’t know that yet, you’ll learn soon enough when your health breaks down.”
Darn it, of all the people in the world, Kate had expected Madame to understand Kate’s need to earn as much money as she could, however she could. Her mother was still in the hospital, after two whole weeks, and Kate was beginning to worry that Alex’s money or patience would run out, and her mother might be returned to the Charity Ward. Even the Charity Ward cost a bundle, if you made a living like Kate’s. “Right.”
“And what about your brothers? Do they work all day and all night and on Sundays, too?”
“Darn it, Madame, leave me alone.”
But Madame didn’t leave her alone. “No.” She answered her own question. “They don’t. And why don’t they? Because they understand that life isn’t all about money.”
“Darn it, I know life isn’t all about money, but money matters. In fact, money matters more than about anything else in the whole world when you don’t have any.”
Madame laughed, and Kate eased up on her some. “Shoot, Madame, you don’t need to tell me what’s important in life. I know, believe me.”
“I know you do, sweetie. Here, have a pickle.” In her thick Rumanian accent, the word came out sounding like “peekle.”
Good old Madame. For Madame, anything that went wrong could be fixed if you ate something. “Thanks, but I haven’t had breakfast yet. I don’t think a pickle would sit well.” The mere thought made her purse her lips and feel queasy.
Whoops. Kate realized she’d said the wrong thing when Madame’s laughter stopped abruptly and she frowned at her.
“Kate Finney, before you put on any makeup, you get yourself out of this booth and grab something to eat. I won’t have a starving child working with me.”
“Darn it, Madame, I’m not starving, and I’m not a child.”
“I don’t care. Go eat something.” She pointed with a dramatic flourish at the door.
“Aha, it sounds as if I arrived at precisely the right time.”
Kate whirled around. Hell and damnation! “No,” she said to Alex, who was looking much too chipper and handsome in another one of his expensive suits. “You didn’t arrive at the right time.” No time was the right time for him. And where in the name of holy Jesus did he get all those fancy suits of his, anyhow? She’d known him for two weeks now and could have sworn he hadn’t worn the same one twice. They made him look too darned good, and Kate didn’t approve.
“Nonsense. I distinctly heard Madame Esmeralda tell you to get some breakfast. Please allow me to go with you. I’m hungry, too.” He patted his elegantly vested midsection.
“Good idea,” said Madame, grinning like a cat. She looked kind of like a cat even at the best of times, Kate thought sourly. “You take Kate to breakfast. I don’t want to see her again for an hour.”
“An hour? How the heck am I supposed to earn a living if you won’t let me work?” Kate, who was furious and feeling beleaguered and outnumbered, glared daggers at Madame, who deflected the vicious look with one of her more inscrutable grins. Kate was so angry, she stamped her foot. Which did about as much good as shouting. “Oh, bah!”
As ungraciously as possible—and Kate had learned how to be ungracious when she was quite young—she snatched up her small handbag and shawl. It was only seven o’clock in the morning, and the air was slightly chilly. “All right, all right. I’ll go with you, but I want to be back sooner than an hour.” She shot a scorching glance at Madame, who smiled sweetly. Next thing, she’d start licking her paws, Kate thought bitterly. Kate had never cared much for cats.
“It’s such a pleasure to be in your company, Miss Finney,” Alex purred as he held the door for her.
“Huh,” said Kate.
She stomped along at his side, resenting him and Madame and her mother’s poor health and life and everything for some minutes, while neither of them spoke. She hadn’t changed into her Gypsy suit yet, so she still wore a plain gray walking skirt and white shirtwaist, both of which she’d made with her own ten fingers. The collar of her shirtwaist was high, which was why she’d selected it this morning: It covered the now-yellowing bruises on her neck. She’d bought the fabric at Chinese Charley’s. Charley sold whatever he found in big, cheap lots, and Kate appreciated him for it.
She made all her clothes, if it came to that, mostly from material she got at Charley’s. This skirt and shirtwaist were her staples. She’d worn the gray jacket that matched the skirt this morning, and was glad she’d done so since at least she was coordinated and probably didn’t look too incongruous walking next to her wealthy escort.
Big deal. Kate was tolerably certain that her entire wardrobe, if she piled up every garment she’d ever owned from birth until this day, wouldn’t fetch as much money in a store, provided a store would offer such shoddy merchandise for sale, as the suit on Alex English’s rich body. It wasn’t a thought calculated to instill confidence in a person who wasn’t awfully comfortable with herself to begin with.
“It’s a lovely day,” Alex ventured after several moments of mutinous silence on Kate’s part.
He, drat him, looked perfectly at ease with himself, her, the day, and everything else. Naturally. Money did that to a person, Kate supposed. She,
of course, had no personal experience with the confidence money brought. Bought. Whatever.
“Here, Miss Finney, let’s dine here. I’ve eaten breakfast here several times. The food they serve is quite tasty.”
Feeling rebellious, she asked, “How much does it cost?”
“My treat. I more or less kidnaped you. The least I can do is pay for the privilege.”
“Privilege? Right.” She stormed into the small eating establishment, which was operated by two colored men who claimed they served Caribbean fare. “I’ll pay for my own food, thank you.”
“Not this morning, you won’t.”
He didn’t sound angry or perturbed, only reasonable. Kate absolutely hated people to be reasonable at her when she was in a temper. She also didn’t know what to say, so she flounced over to a table the waiter indicated and sat in a fluff of gray wool. Alex smiled at the waiter for both of them and took the chair across the table from her. “That’s a fetching outfit, Miss Finney. May I ask if you made it?”
She gave him one of her best scowls, which he ignored almost as effectively as Madame had done. “Yes. What of it?”
“Nothing. I’m impressed that you have the skill to do so many things, and do them well.”
Kate stared at him, speechless, for a moment before she said without as much spirit as she’d heretofore demonstrated, “Like heck.”
Alex grinned and didn’t leap to defend himself. Rather, he glanced up at the waiter, who was smiling down upon them like a benevolent black Buddha. “I’d like some of your special Caribbean coffee, please, Pierre.”
And that’s another thing, Kate decided bitterly. How come he knew the names of all these food people? Stupid question. Because he was rich enough to dine out all the time. Rich people dined. Poor people ate—when they could afford to. Kate sneered inside, but didn’t show it because she was feeling small and unimportant and stupid.
Her stomach took that moment to growl, embarrassing her nearly to death. Shooting a you’d-better-not-say-a-word frown at Alex, who pretended he hadn’t heard the indelicate noise, she forced herself to smile at the waiter. “Me, too, please.” She hated eating in restaurants. She’d had no practice. She didn’t know how to go about it. Darn it, they scared her.
Bicycle Built for Two Page 9
