The Mangle

by S. L. Stoner

  “Well, Mister Fong,” Sage said, “I did acquire a bit of information from some sporting ladies that might assist the cousins in their search. Is there any chance they could snoop around the whorehouses near the rail yard for boards nailed across a window? That’s what the girls said we should look for.”

  “Just how you meet these prostitutes?” Fong asked.

  “I talked with Hanke while he was having his usual noon meal in Mozart’s kitchen. I asked him what he knew about white slavery in Portland. He knows a lot, it turns out. Anyway, he and Chief Hunt were planning prostitution raids that very night. He thought, and correctly it turns out, that not all of the girls’ pimps would bail them out. I hung around one of the saloons they raided and bailed out some of the ladies afterward. In exchange, they gave me ideas on how to look for Rebecca.

  “I’m thinking that if we can find that boarded up window, Hanke will cooperate and raid the place. He told me that his chief is frustrated so many cops are on the take. To conduct last night’s raid, they had to summon the officers at the last moment, while keeping the purpose secret, just so the raids would be a surprise. We’ll have to be just as careful if we mount a raid to rescue Rebecca.”

  “Ah, that means cousins better make hatchets sharp enough to split hair,” Fong said, with a smile.

  Eich shifted in his seat. “What about Mae? Do you think she’s in any danger?” he asked, his wide forehead creased with worry.

  Sage shook his head but added, “The real danger is that she is going to collapse. She’s working all day in that damn heat, then going home with Rachel, Rebecca’s sister, and not getting enough rest.”

  “Still, someone did most definitely kidnap Rebecca. What if he comes back for Rachel?” Eich persisted.

  “Why would they? I’m convinced that Rebecca’s kidnapping has nothing to do with the labor dispute. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all. From what Hanke told me, more white slavery goes on than we think. Most of the adrift women the white slavers grab have no friends or family living close enough to raise a hue and cry. I think a white slaver maybe saw an opportunity and grabbed Rebecca, not knowing she had a sister around to raise a fuss,” said Sage.

  Sage saw, from the expression on Eich’s face that Mae and Eich had probably discussed this point and reached a different conclusion. Mae was convinced that Rachel was in danger. That’s why she insisted on going everywhere with the woman. Sage and Mae had a whispered quarrel on the boarding house veranda the night before.

  “It’s silly for you to sleep here when you could be so much more comfortable at home,” he’d insisted.

  “I am not that uncomfortable here. Besides, it’s easier on you if you don’t have to fetch me to and fro every day.”

  “I don’t mind. At least that way, I know you’re staying out of trouble,” he said, realizing as soon as the words left his lips that he’d said exactly the wrong thing.

  Mae pointed her finger at his face. “I am telling you for the last time, John Sagacity Adair, you are not in charge of me and you will not tell me what to do! You don’t browbeat Fong and Eich about their safety, so don’t browbeat me.” Though there was only a quarter moon lighting the night sky, it was bright enough to see her eyes shooting fire in his direction.

  “Okay, stay here. But when you finally collapse from exhaustion, I’m carting you back home and I won’t want to hear another thing about it.”

  Instead of responding, she shot him another glare before turning around, opening the door and stepping back into the boarding house. She shut the door firmly enough that it rattled the window next to it.

  He looked up from his empty coffee cup and found Eich studying him with kind eyes and a teasing smile. “You tried to boss her around, didn’t you?” the ragpicker asked, his grin parting beard from mustache, “Even I’ve learned that is a losing proposition.”

  Before Sage could answer, Eich continued, “I am afraid I don’t share your certainty that she and Rachel are in no danger. I’m concerned. So, since there is so much open land on the eastside, I’ve found me a little camp site near Rachel’s boarding house. I hope you will forgive me if I focus on watching over Mae, instead of looking for Rebecca. Though I will do that too, once I know they are both safely inside either the boarding house or the laundry.” He gazed around the table to see the other three nodding their agreement.

  Despite their exhaustion, the laundry workers trudged across the Morrison Bridge to the union building’s meeting hall. Mae counted noses—all but ten of the forty Sparta Laundry workers made the trek and those ten were women with small children at home. The majority of workers from the other laundries were also there, filling the hall’s wooden benches to overflowing. The union president got right down to business.

  “Thank you for coming. The Association flat out rejected our nine-hour proposal. They countered with an offer to extend our twenty minute lunch by ten minutes for a total of one-half hour.”

  Angry, derisive shouts exploded throughout the room. “Cobb takes four hour lunches!”“They don’t care if they kill us!” “My sister lost her hand to those criminals!”

  The last shout to ring out, “To hell with their damn job!” inspired cheers.

  Once the tumult died down the president said, “We told Cobb that we would allow you all to vote on whether to accept or reject their offer. That’s one of the things we need to do tonight.”

  “If we reject it, what happens next?” asked a woman in the front row. The question turned the room pin-drop silent.

  “Well, the parties could decide to stay in negotiations. Or, we could vote to strike,” Mae noticed this last comment caused many to shift uneasily atop the benches. “Or, management could decide to lock us out.”

  “What do you think we ought to do?” came the question.

  “I think that we should stay at the bargaining table. Though, if management decides to lock us out, there’s not much we can do in return.”

  “How likely is a lockout?” asked the worried voice of a Sparta Laundry wash tub man.

  “I won’t lie to you. I think the likelihood is high,” the president responded honestly. “Rachel Levy, who you all know, has been planning for that happening. Rachel, can you please tell them what’s planned?”

  Rachel rose to her feet, letting her eyes rest on every face before she said, “As you know, I’ve been working with our president and some others to make plans in case the managers do lock us out. We have a number of things in the works. First, we are going to start a commissary in this very building. Other unions and their members will contribute food, clothing and other necessities. There will also be a jobs desk. We need volunteers to help gather and distribute the donations and other volunteers to identify and solicit temporary jobs.”

  A number of women’s hands shot into the air, causing Rachel to laugh. “Thank you, ladies. Please give me your names at the end of the meeting.

  “Additionally, the local labor council has said it will be contributing funds. These are for the rent, utilities and doctor’s bills of those who need the help. Fortunately or unfortunately for us, our wages are so puny that keeping us going won’t be all that costly. We’re champions at making do with boiled bones and paper-stuffed shoes.” Her observation brought the first laughter of the night.

  A smiling Rachel held up a hand to quell the laughter. “There are two other things in the works. The first is that we have applied to the Shirtwaist and Laundry Workers International Union for strike fund money. That means every person who walks the picket line at a laundry will get paid for that day’s work.”

  She took a deep breath, clearly excited about her next piece of information, “I am also pleased to announce that the labor council intends to purchase and run a cooperative steam laundry. It is their intent to provide jobs for all good union members.”

  There was a momentary cessation of all sound and then the room erupted in handclaps and cheers.

  Mae looked at the hopeful faces around
her, wishing with all her heart that their good spirits would last through the trying days ahead. She’d been in strikes before. She knew how hard it was to stay hopeful when the larder was empty—especially when children were going hungry.

  She scanned the faces once again until her eye caught on the figure of a woman slipping out the door at the rear of the hall. She quickly searched the room for the Caroline woman. She was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sinclair knocked on the peeling and warped door. It was early. Dawn light had just rimmed the distant mountain, but this was the only time he could check on the gal, Rebecca. It was no wonder he’d mistook her for her sister. Farley finally understood that. But Farley still insisted Sinclair keep her locked up. Said that’s what Cobb wanted.

  The house’s madam flung open the door, ready to let loose on whoever stood outside. Her war paint from the prior night blotched around her faded eyes. When she saw him, her pale lips slackened with surprise. At last finding her wits, she said, “Well now. What the hell are you doing on my stoop this god awful early in the morning? You said you’d be stopping by this evening.”

  Sinclair brushed past her, heading for the stairs. Her voice trailed after him, “Now I haven’t had a chance to take care of her yet today. Besides, she’s a little minx that one.”

  The key was in the padlock and he soon had the door open. Enough light filtered through the curtain and between the boards to see the dark shape lying on the cot. She stirred at his entrance so he quickly shut the door behind him even as he heard the madam’s heavy steps climbing to the second floor. He needed a moment’s peace from that screechy voice.

  The room stank. He peered at the chamber pot in the corner and found it full. They must not have emptied it since he was last here. Rustling drew his attention back to the bed. Rebecca was sitting up, her hands clutching the cot rails to hold her steady.

  “Who are you?” she rasped. “Why are you doing this to me? Do I know you?”

  Before he could answer the door swung open and the madam entered the room, her slippers shuffling across the uneven plank floor. When she reached his side she shook a finger at the girl. “Don’t you trust this one. She threw the water pitcher at my head when I brung her dinner.”

  “Is that before or after you decided not to empty the damn chamber pot?” he asked.”I told you she was to be kept healthy. And why is she tied to the cot? I told you not to do that.” He didn’t try to hide the contempt he felt for the woman.

  He noticed Rebecca watching the exchange, confusion in her face. “Why am I to be kept healthy? Why would you care?” In the dim light he saw the glitter of silent tears trickle down her face as hopelessness collapsed her shoulders. She lay down, curled onto her side, her back to the room.

  He turned toward the madam. “Get that pot emptied.” The woman turned toward the door saying, “I’ll tell Amy…” only to stop when he snapped out, “You pick it up and haul it yourself, right now. And when you come back, I want to see you bring fresh water and a decent meal.”

  She reddened, opened her mouth to protest and then had second thoughts because she clamped her lips shut before leaning down to lift the overfull chamber pot, grunting with the effort to prevent it spilling.

  After she’d thumped back downstairs he moved the chair near the bed and sat. For some minutes he silently stared at the unmoving figure on the bed. How had he come to be in this situation? Sure he’d been a rambunctious kid more clever than his sisters. “Always busy as a bee,” his mother used to say. But she said it with love and a smile. She may have cuffed him about the ears to “get his attention,” but she’d often praised him, too. When, at sixteen, he’d returned from his two-years as a runaway, she’d cried with joy. When he’d declared his intention to attend the seminary she puffed up like a strutting hen.

  But, he wasn’t the son she thought he was. Those two years working in a Chicago whorehouse, with the madam as his first girlfriend, changed him forever. And, he’d discovered opium, his first love. He’d returned home as someone else. Someone his mother never knew.

  The door behind him opened and the woman shuffled in carrying a tin pitcher and cup in one hand and a plate of bread, cheese and meat in the other. She banged everything down on the fruit box beside the bed. “She throws any damn water at me again,” she declared, “and she can die of thirst for all I care!” That said, the woman stomped from the room, grumbling about fetching the slop jar.

  Once the door had closed, he turned back to the girl. She rolled over to face him. He could only see a glimmer of eyes sunk deep in the hollows above her cheekbones. She’s lost weight, he thought to himself. For just a second, he remembered her easy smile as she’d talked to the pencil seller and her jaunty walk down the boardwalk when she’d moved on. Innocent, sweet and alluring all at the same time.

  That recollection stabbed him in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time. He shrugged away the feeling and reached for the tin cup the madam had just delivered. Pouring water into the cup, he passed it to the girl who hesitated, then took it and drank greedily.

  She handed the cup to him and sank back on the bed. Eyelids fluttering, she managed just one more word. “Why?” she asked again in a whisper.

  He’d left once he was sure the laudanum had done its work and after the madam delivered a clean chamber pot. Carefully snapping shut the padlock he paused, staring at the door, visualizing the sleeping girl, curled atop the cot. Shaking himself loose of that image he ran down the stairs. When he reached the front stoop, he paused again, this time to stare unseeing toward the street’s end where parched weeds covered a field alongside the railroad tracks.

  “Damned if I know,” he muttered, finally answering her question as he stepped into the street.

  Mid-morning sun slanted down through the skylight’s clean glass. Fong’s weekly cleaning ritual ensured dirt never blurred the light. Given the excessive heat of the past few weeks, Sage would have welcomed even that miniscule lessening of light. Fong, however, merely adjusted their training schedule so that the two of them practiced the form either in the early, cooler, morning hours or late in the evening.

  Once, when he’d complained of the heat, Fong sent him an unsympathetic look, saying, “Snake and Crane practiced in climate much hotter than this. Sweat is good.” That had been the last time Sage voiced that particular complaint.

  They moved through air warm as their skin. After awhile, it felt like his skin and the air merged, all borders gone. Following that routine they began the two person exercise Fong called “push hands.” When Sage’d first performed this exercise, it had seemed silly to so slowly block each other’s thrusts and kicks. No longer, though. When he’d used this training out in the world, he’d found himself able to block, parry, kick and hit with lightning speed.

  Fong breaking into a relaxed stance signaled the exercise session’s end. As usual, his teacher looked cool even as Sage panted and swiped away the sweat dripping off his face.

  “My men not find boarded window,” Fong told him, once they were sitting on the polished wood floor.

  Sage heaved a sigh, “Well, it was a long shot. They probably have a curtain hanging between the boards and the window.

  “If this about laundry problem, it odd that union leader sister get taken and not leader,” Fong mused aloud.

  “Yah, well, I’m not sure that her kidnapping has anything to do with the union. According to Hanke, white slavery is a growing problem in Portland. She was walking alone. Easy pickings. Still, that’s what Ma and Eich are sure it’s about the laundry fight.”

  Sage clambered to his feet, rubbing the small of his back. “I am not sure I’ll ever get used to floor sitting cross legged on the floor. Maybe a person has to start doing that as a child.”

  “True. Start as child, floor sitting no problem. All children can sit on floor. You must keep practicing,” Fong said before standing up with the undulating grace of curling smoke. “It takes much work to be child again.”


  “I should have known you weren’t going to make it easy on me,” Sage said without rancor. “Well, guess I better be off to visit the ladies.”

  “Scarlet ladies from yesterday?” Fong asked.

  “I wish. No, these are the ladies who are trying to eradicate the scarlet ladies’ profession,” Sage said.

  Fong’s face softened with sympathy as he said, “Ah, I see. May your visit be short and soft as a falling plum blossom.”

  “Very funny. Besides, I doubt they’ll get angry.” Sage said.

  “Not ladies. You,” Fong responded as he flashed his toothiest smile.

  Sage went downstairs to don his proper man-about-town attire. He had visited with the city’s only police matron while he waited for the prostitutes’ release. Before he left, she gave him the address of the Society for Social Hygiene. That’s where he was going this morning.

  When he reached the downtown building housing the Society, half an hour later, he found two other organizations’ names on the door’s frosted glass: the Temperance Union and the Oregon Suffrage Association. He noticed he was somewhat nervous as he turned the door knob and entered what surely had to be a hothouse of feminine passion.

  Inside, all was clean and calm. The waiting room was empty but the tinkling bell above the outer door quickly summoned a no-nonsense woman. Her light eyes widened in surprise when she saw him though her voice was composed as she asked, “May I assist you, sir?”

  He cleared his throat, “I was hoping to speak to someone with the Society for Social Hygiene.”

  The woman’s look sharpened but she merely tilted her head, studied him momentarily, though not long enough to make her scrutiny awkward, and said, “I will check to see if Mrs. Nathan Harris is available to speak with you.” She turned and disappeared down a short hallway leading from the waiting room.

  Sage looked at the wooden chairs and decided to remain standing. A collection of wall posters competed with each other in terms of message and color. He had time to swiftly peruse a few declaring pointed messages like, “Equality for the Mothers of Men;” “Lips that Touch Liquor Will Never Touch Ours;” and “Stamp Out Syphilis-Every Baby Entitled to be Born Healthy,” before a dignified woman, encased in a black, high-necked, bombazine gown, entered the waiting room. Her face was kindly though she didn’t extend her hand. Instead, she said, “Hello, my name is Mary Harris,” before continuing, “I am very sorry, sir. But if you have medical concerns I must direct you to your personal physician for a social examination and specific treatment information.”