Rory's Promise

by Michaela MacColl

  “How far west?” Rory's voice was small. The only thing she knew about the West was her favorite issue of Wild West Weekly. A visitor to the Foundling had left it behind and Rory had claimed it for her own. She'd read it a dozen times and she had serious doubts that a suitable home for Violet lay between those pages. There were Indians, coyotes, and rattlesnakes in the West.

  “A week's journey by train.”

  “A week away!” Rory shoved the chair aside and clenched her fists at her side. “I'll never see her again!”

  Sister Anna stood up from behind her desk and came around to Rory. She stooped to put her arm around Rory's shoulders. Rory could feel the nun's crucifix pressing into her back.

  “No, Rory,” she said. Her manner was matter-of-fact, but Rory thought she heard a little bit of pity in Sister Anna's voice. “You won't see her again. She'll have a new family. We have found it best for the children we place to sever all ties with their former lives. It is easier for them. And for you.” She fell silent, as if waiting for Rory to speak, but Rory was staring straight ahead, thinking more quickly than she ever had in her life.

  “Violet's new parents are good Catholics,” Sister Anna went on. “And they are eager to have her; they especially asked for a redheaded girl.”

  Rory grabbed the end of her own red braid and shoved it toward Sister Anna's face. “If that's what they want, let's give them two!”

  “They only asked for one girl, I'm afraid. And you're twelve. We want them to have a younger girl.” Sister Anna's voice was resolute and Rory had to fight to keep down the panic in her stomach. “You know our policy—we send younger children so we're sure they will be loved and part of a family, not put to work.”

  “Send another orphan! Lord knows you have plenty!”

  “The Lord's name is not to be used lightly, Rory.”

  “Then He should take better care of his children!” She grabbed at Sister Anna's hand. “I told my mother I would look after Violet. I promised.”

  Sister Anna stroked Rory's palm. “Rory, you've done exceptionally well with Violet. She's healthy and bright as a new button. But at five years old, she's the ideal age to be placed. She needs parents. You should make this easier for her, not harder.”

  Sister Anna's gentle voice washed over her while her calloused hands tried to soothe Rory's. Rory kept her eyes on Sister Anna's hands. How strange that the nun in charge of so much at the Foundling had calluses. But that was Sister Anna—she wasn't afraid of hard work.

  “Rory, you know it would be best for Violet if you let her go,” Sister Anna said smoothly. “If you love her …”

  “No!” Rory shouted, shoving herself away from Sister Anna. “You're a nun. What do you know about love?”

  “Rory!” Sister Anna stepped back as if she had been slapped. Her thin face had red spots high on her cheeks.

  “No, I'm not listening to you anymore. You're trying to trick me.” Rory reached for the door and threw it open. Pausing in the doorway, she cried, “You're a liar and a baby thief! I won't let you take Violet away from me!” She slammed the door before Sister Anna could say another word.

  Standing in the hall was a younger orphan, staring at Rory, her mouth open like a hole in the middle of a doughnut.

  “What are you looking at?” Rory demanded.

  “No one talks to Sister Anna that way,” the girl whispered with a panicked look at the door. She pulled out a rosary and ran it through her fingers as though she could rub away Rory's sins.

  “It's about time someone told the Sisters what's what!” Rory said, defiance in her voice. But as she got her breath back, she began to wonder how much trouble she was in. What would happen if Sister Anna turned against her? Rory might lose any chance to be with Violet.

  Sister Anna's doorknob began to turn. Rory couldn't face her. She flew down the hallway, ran down two flights of stairs to the main hall. It was suppertime and the entryway was deserted.

  The wide double doors to the outdoors beckoned. Rory had never gone out by herself—the Sisters frightened the orphans with stories of truants being snatched off the street by the police. With a toss of her head, Rory pushed open the door. If something terrible happened, it would serve Sister Anna right.

  CHAPTER Seven

  RORY PAUSED AT THE TOP OF THE STEPS. THE LATE-AFTERNOON sun was bright and for a moment she stopped, blinded. Sixty-Ninth Street in front of the Foundling was busy with people walking home after work. Shaking off caution, Rory marched out alone, leaving the Foundling behind.

  Two Sisters in their outdoor habits were coming up the wide steps. Rory pushed her way past them. One of them, Rory wasn't sure who, called, “Rory! Where are you going? You can't go out now. The truancy police …”

  Rory ran down to the corner and then up Third Avenue as fast as she could, leaving the Sisters’ rules and warnings far behind. Dodging walkers as the sun went down, she hardly knew where her feet were going. The homes along Third Avenue passed in a blur. The low setting sun cast shadows from the houses on the west side of the street and from the trees in Central Park. Tears streaming down her face, Rory turned down Seventy-First Street until she reached Fifth Avenue.

  She hesitated for a scant second to be sure she could dodge the carriages traveling down Fifth Avenue, and then ducked across the sidewalk into Central Park through the Children's Gate. It was a familiar walk from many Sunday excursions with other children from the Foundling, and the park was where she was always happiest. Even though it was in the center of New York City, Central Park felt like a different world. A place where grass and trees grew and buildings didn't shut out the sky. But now the park was quiet, with no screaming children's voices or nannies scolding their charges.

  A stitch in her side stole her breath away and she slowed to a walk, pressing her hand to her waist. She could feel the leather in her boots splitting at the toes. She crossed the park toward the lake and stopped only when she reached her most favorite place, the fountain on the water's edge. Half panting, half sobbing, Rory couldn't stop railing at the Sisters. It was so unfair. Rory had mostly followed their rules. She'd worked hard to take care of the children and kept up her studies. And how did Sister Anna reward her? She took away the only thing Rory cared about!

  The bronze angel atop the fountain held a lily in one hand as she blessed the water flowing beneath her with the other. Rory scooped water to cool her face and neck. At this hour, the park was almost empty and she had the angel to herself. Rory craned her neck to look up at the angel's beautiful face. Sister Anna had told her that a woman designed it and Rory liked it all the more for that. One bronze foot stepped forward and her wings unfurled as though she was about to take flight. Never had Rory envied her so much.

  “I wish I could just fly into the sky,” she told the angel. “What should I do? I have to save Violet before they take her so far away I can't find her. But how? The Foundling has been our home for three years.”

  The angel's eyes were fixed on the distant horizon.

  “Well?” Rory asked impatiently. “I haven't asked you for much—at least you could help me now that I'm really in trouble.”

  Was it her imagination or did the angel's wings ruffle as though she was irritated by Rory's demands?

  “So you want me to figure it out for myself?” Rory put her damp fist under her chin and considered. The Foundling hadn't always been their home. Why not return to Hell's Kitchen, where she had lived with her parents? She hadn't been back since Ma died, but maybe she could find some of her mother's old friends. Other girls her age got jobs and supported their family. Rory could do the same. She dried her face with her skirt and straightened up. With a spring in her step from having made a decision for herself, she headed across the park to Columbus Avenue. An omnibus came lumbering down from the north. Rory ran alongside. When it slowed for a carriage turning right, she hopped onto the back. There were two boys, very dirty, perched on the rear fender too.

  “Hello,” she said.

  T
hey scowled at her and gestured to the driver in the front of the omnibus. “Shhh.”

  Rory pressed her lips in a tight line and kept her eyes looking straight ahead. There were unspoken rules to catching rides on the taxis and buses. Never, ever draw attention to yourself or your fellow illegal passengers.

  As soon as she reached Fifty-Fifth Street she hopped off. Her companions didn't flicker an eyelash at her departure. Where the avenue intersected with Fifty-Fifth Street there was a saloon on every corner. In three years Rory had managed to forget the sound of poor men and women drinking their cares away; the loud laughter always had a cutting edge. Violence was never far away in Hell's Kitchen.

  She quickly moved past the saloons into the street crowded with vendors selling goods from carts or trays suspended from their necks. Boys were hawking newspapers or offering to shine shoes. The smallest children scoured the street for bits of wood or coal, fallen from a passing cart— anything to feed the stove tonight. Rory had done the same in her time. She watched a little boy steal an apple from a fruit stand. She had done that too. She remembered so clearly her reasoning—how could it be wrong when she was so hungry? And she had always shared the loot with Vi.

  She passed a man selling roast chestnuts, a smell Rory loved. She took a deep sniff and started to cough, her eyes watering. Rory covered her mouth with the clean handkerchief from her pinafore pocket. How could she have forgotten the smells of the street? The stench of sewage from the privies in the courtyard behind every building or the fresh horse manure steaming on the street? Had her neighborhood always been this bad? Or had it gotten worse while she was away?

  She reached her old building. She stared at it for a moment trying to decide if it was smaller now. It seemed impossibly narrow, wedged between two larger tenements. The door was propped open. Rory took a deep breath and walked in. The wail of a child's crying filled the hallway. The smell of coal fires, cabbage, and burned potatoes hit her senses like a policeman's nightstick thumping a drunk's skull. Unmistakable. Unforgettable.

  The stairs were rickety and uneven. Nor had they seen the business end of a broom in years. The scents of vinegar and borax of the Foundling, not to mention the spick-and-span tiled floors, seemed from another world. As she began to climb, a boy dressed in knickerbockers and a shirt that was too small for him came rushing down the stairs. Rory pressed herself against the wall, recalling clearly how she used to race down the same steps, despite Ma's warnings.

  Their room had been on the third floor in the back. There was no running water and the single privy was in the tiny back courtyard. At the time, Rory knew they were lucky not to have to share their room with another family. She caught a glimpse of the fire escape outside. It was strung with clotheslines and lined with trash and rags. Rory remembered she couldn't see the sky from the alley. Memories of the past washed over her in waves, threatening to drown her if she wasn't careful.

  The baby was still crying and Rory thought that baby's ma might be out working. For the last three years she hadn't heard a baby cry so long without being comforted. She wanted to find the child and hold him close, but she knew better than to knock on any strange doors. Her mother had always tried to keep her away from the other kids in the building. “The likes of them are not for you, Rory,” Ma had said. Back in Ireland, Ma had gone to school for a few years. It was always her dream that Rory and Violet would go to school and get a proper education. Even when Da had died, Ma worked her fingers down to the bone to keep her children decent. They had been all right, even if Rory had gotten tired of eating potatoes all the time.

  When the cough came, Rory tried to tell herself Ma was just tired from her job at the shirt factory. It was the chill in the air. Anything but the truth. But Ma would have none of that. “There's no use fooling yourself,” she had said. “Just promise me you'll take care of your little sister.”

  Rory stared at her old door. “I swear, Ma.” The three-year-old promise still lingered in the air.

  The door swung open and a voice bellowed, “Mavis! Are you finally home? Where's my supper?”

  A large, gaunt man wearing a dirty pair of pants and a grimy undershirt stood in the doorway. Unsteady on his feet, he grabbed the doorjamb to stay upright. Even from ten feet away his breath stank of liquor. His bleary eyes spied her and his lips curled in a grin. Rory backed up as he stumbled in her direction. He lunged for her. Rory turned on her heel and bolted toward the stairs.

  Down two flights and she paused in the tiny hall to catch her breath. Hell's Kitchen was horrible. What was she doing here? There was nothing here for her and Violet. She had to return to the Foundling and somehow convince Sister Anna there was another way. She slammed through the door and burst into the street, colliding with a large man dressed in blue. She fell to the ground, the wind knocked out of her.

  A beefy hand grabbed hers and hauled her to her feet.

  “Got you!”

  CHAPTER Eight

  RORY STARED UP THE LONG ARM IN A BLUE COAT TO A LARGE policeman with a wicked smile on his face.

  “Thought ya could double back and get away, did ya?” he asked in a thick Irish brogue. “Outsmarted yerself this time!” With his free hand, he adjusted his round cap with the insignia of the police on the front. Rory had jarred him as she fell.

  Writhing under his grip, Rory glared up at him. “I wasn't running from you. You've got the wrong kid.”

  “Do I now? And I suppose you aren't part of that gang of thieves?”

  “I'm no thief,” Rory retorted. “I live at the Foundling. Ask them and they'll tell you.”

  He burst out laughing. “That's a new one. First street kid I ever heard who wanted to be a foundling! If you're at the Foundling then why aren't you there? The nuns don't let their kids run the neighborhoods. You're a dirty scamp like all the rest of the street kids.”

  “Honest, I live with the nuns at the Foundling,” Rory explained patiently. If she told him enough times he would have to check.

  “Honest? Ha!” With his free hand he tweaked her nose. “I used to walk that beat and I know a bit about it. Why don't you tell me which building you live in?”

  “St. Irene's Residence,” Rory shot back.

  “Ha! That's where the babies live!” he crowed. “I knew you were lying.” He pushed her forward. “Let's go.”

  “No, wait!” Rory cried. “I do live there. Ask Sister Anna Michaella. She lets me stay with the babies because my sister is there.”

  He kept shoving her forward. “I've met Sister Anna before.” He tugged at his collar with his free hand as if the memory was not a pleasant one. “Sister usually dresses her kids a bit more respectable.” He glanced down at her too-short skirt and leather boots where her big toe had finally split the leather.

  “I keep growing,” Rory said with an edge of desperation. “Just last week the ward Sister was saying she was at her wits’ end trying to find me shoes.” She plucked at the hand on her arm. “You must believe me! Please?”

  “You're good.” The officer grinned. “I almost believe you!”

  “Just take me there. Any of the Sisters will tell you …”

  He laughed. “Think I have time to be parading across the park, do you? Not a chance.” He marched her a few steps down the street to a black paddy wagon. Somehow all the vendors and shoppers had melted away. Rory wasn't surprised; it had always been like that when the cops were on the street. The policeman unlocked the back door of the wagon. Inside was a metal cell on wheels. A bench lined both sides and there were iron rings bolted to the walls. There was already a prisoner inside. His face was bruised and bloody, and one eye was swollen shut. He was in handcuffs that were threaded through the iron rings. His body was slumped and twisted against the wall, almost unconscious.

  Rory's feet dragged on the sidewalk. She began breathing faster. Her heart beat too quickly in her chest. She didn't belong in there. “Don't make me go in there,” she begged. “Not with him.” He must be dangerous to be handcuffed. Rory could
n't afford to take chances—what would happen to Vi without her? “Please, sir?”

  “You've changed your tune now, I see,” the officer said, his grip relaxing slightly.

  This was her chance. Rory kicked him hard in the shin. He let go and shouted in pain. But no sooner did she turn to run than he grabbed her long braid and hauled her back.

  “Ow!” Tears escaped down her cheeks. “Let go of me!”

  “If you really are at the Foundling,” the policeman said angrily, “they'll be glad to be rid of you.” Limping, the policeman shoved her into the wagon. “Not so bold now, are you?” he grumbled, rubbing his knee. “You'll stay in there until we get back to the precinct.” He slammed the metal door and Rory was trapped.

  The narrow metal wagon was dark except for thin lines of light rimming the edges of the door. The light told her there was air, but still Rory couldn't breathe. She huddled in the corner, as far from the other prisoner as possible. His breathing was ragged and Rory wondered if his insides were hurt. When her Da had fallen from the elevated train tracks, he had lived for a few days, wheezing just like that. The doctor said his ribs were broken. Rory sat for hours at his bedside those last days while Ma was at work, just listening and praying he would live—and keeping Violet quiet so he could get his rest.

  Rory wanted to kick herself. The children at the Foundling never went outside without the nuns. Rory had been warned time and time again. The police were always looking for poor kids to pull off the streets. What happened to the children afterward had never been specified, like the threat in a fairy tale. Don't go outside alone or else. But Rory had not listened. Now she would find out the ending firsthand.

  The wagon lurched forward and Rory cried out. There was nothing to cushion the jarring of the wagon over the cobblestone streets. Her companion groaned. Rory bounced from one surface to another. Her elbow hit the wall with an impact that made her whole arm numb. When the wagon stopped, she rubbed the sore spot and wished she had kicked the policeman harder. Outside, she could hear traffic noises and the voices of lots of men. The door swung open and Rory blinked in the bright streetlight. She was at the Eighteenth Police Precinct. No one could mistake that pink granite building with the telltale pillars holding up the green police lamps. She'd been here with Ma when Da had died. Not a day she cared to recall.