by Cathy Gohlke
Months later, long after the little family was due to arrive, came another entry regarding the O’Reillys. The child, William, had died of fever just before sailing; the grieving parents stayed in Ireland. And that was the last mention she found of Morgan O’Reilly.
The next entry that made Olivia’s heart race was October 26, 1886. After months and months of the public collection of funds for a pedestal, New York at last “unveiled” the Statue of Liberty in New York harbor. Her father had written that it was a momentous day and predicted that his own child would be born before the sun set.
But his reaction to her birth was written two weeks later.
My sweet daughter did not disappoint. I shall christen her “Olivia,” as Maud wanted, though in my heart she will always be our “Lady Liberty.”
Would that my sweet wife were here to hold her, to raise her in her likeness. Could it be, I would wrench her from heaven’s gates.
Olivia swallowed when she saw that his tears had run the ink, his pen had torn the page. How long he’d waited to write the next lines, she could not guess.
God, forgive my folly. I love my precious wife too well to call her back, and hers is the greater liberty—not to be found in New York harbor.
Olivia swiped at her own tears. She had wondered, as long as she could remember, if her father had blamed her for her mother’s death. She’d wondered, too, if he was disappointed that she was not a boy but could find no hint that he’d been less than thrilled with his new daughter. He’d loved his daughters—both his daughters.
Through the morning, Olivia read of the years of her childhood and the pleasure that childhood had given her father. By the time the journals reached the 1890s, Olivia began to recognize and remember the events of which her father wrote, and loved the familiarity.
Just before dinner, she replaced 1895 on the shelf and took up the following year’s volume. A sheaf of bundled papers fell from the journal’s binding. Olivia stooped to retrieve them, but her fingers fumbled, and she dropped them once again.
“The Chicago Advance? Why would Father keep a year’s worth of weekly religious papers?”
The moment she turned them over, the memories came in a rush. Long Sunday evenings when she and Dorothy sat, spellbound, by the fire or in the back garden as their father read the serialized story aloud, the timbre of his voice rising and falling with emotion.
It was the beginning of his eternal life—he’d always said so—no matter that a lifetime had been lived before and that he’d always known the Lord.
She set the papers in order, week by week, and sighed. “Charles Sheldon—you’ll never know how you set this family’s head on end.”
Dinner was served, but Olivia ignored it until Grayson knocked and set a tray at her elbow.
She read until midnight, until she could no longer hold up her head, then turned off the lamp and sat in the moonlight as it streamed through her father’s window. She would finish tomorrow. But she knew how Sheldon’s story ended, and knew what she must do.
On Wednesday morning Maureen purchased a sturdy bolt and a lock with key from a street vendor. During her lunch break she returned to the secondhand shop and purchased a kettle, one cast-iron skillet, two cracked plates, two forks, two knives, and two chipped mugs. On Thursday she purchased a flat iron, a length of toweling, and a blanket for the lumpy tick mattress in her flat. On her way home she stopped at the corner store for a small supply of potatoes and onions, half a loaf of brown bread, a half pound of cheese, and a tin of tea. She couldn’t afford the sugar, though she would have dearly loved some. She eyed the eggs but decided to wait until Katie Rose joined her; Katie Rose would need the nourishment, and they could share the luxury.
“Is that all you’re eating?” Alice demanded when she saw the little packet of bread and cheese Maureen pocketed to take to the lunchroom on Friday.
“It’s quite enough,” Maureen said stoutly, leveling her stare. “I had a lovely dinner last night—can’t possibly eat more.”
Alice frowned, and Maureen knew she didn’t believe her.
Between her rent, the clothes for work, the expenses to set up a meager housekeeping, and the trolley and ferry fees she must set aside to visit Katie Rose on Saturday, she found she’d spent all the money Jaime Flynn had loaned her and nearly half of her last gold piece. She prayed that Katie Rose still had her gold piece sewn into her hem, that it had not been discovered. She prayed that the hospital fees would not exceed her pay envelope on Saturday. And then she stopped and reminded herself that she did not believe in praying, did not believe the Almighty listened to her.
She cut her lunch ration of bread and cheese in half and drank a cup of weak tea for breakfast. Potatoes and onions boiled in water sufficed for supper.
Despite being dead on her feet each night, Maureen had washed and mended and ironed each piece of secondhand clothing. She’d done her best to style the pieces necessary for work in the department store—enough to put together two outfits beyond what Mrs. Melkford had given her. But what had pleased her most was that she’d finished making over a woven skirt and waist suitable for school for Katie Rose. She hoped her sister would be just as pleased.
Saturday’s workday, though shorter, dragged for Maureen. She was surprised when Alice placed a hand over her fingers to stop her from drumming the counter.
“Anticipating that first pay envelope, are we?” Alice teased.
“It’s my first, indeed,” Maureen confessed, stilling her fingers but unable to keep the smile from her lips.
“Didn’t you work in Ireland?” Alice looked as though she couldn’t believe it.
Maureen felt her face pale and turned away. “My pay went to my mother and sister.” And then she squared her shoulders. “This is the first that’s all my own.”
“Good for you,” Alice said; Maureen knew she meant it. “Enjoy today. We’ll all be working extra hours beginning Monday—Christmas shopping season, you know.”
“Does the store stay open longer, then?” Maureen had not considered that.
“Not open to the public longer, but we’ll all be staying after to restock shelves and make up displays.” She shrugged. “It’s expected, and Old Blood and Thunder won’t let anyone off ’less they’ve been struck dead. We don’t get paid for the extra hours.” Alice straightened a hat on its form and nodded meaningfully. “But it’s no time to test her. All of management is wound like a clock straight through Twelfth Night.”
Maureen couldn’t think how she’d handle the extra hours or what she’d do about Katie Rose. She dared not leave her alone for hours in the evening above a bar.
As the clock neared closing time, Maureen’s heart flip-flopped. It skipped a beat at the thought of seeing good Mrs. Melkford, then quickened for the shame of the lies she’d told. It lifted again with hope that Katie Rose was well and growing stronger and then fell with a thudding wish that she might remain at the hospital one more week, until Maureen could save more money.
How she would pay daily for two, how she would traverse the difficulty of enrolling Katie Rose in school and ensure her safety each afternoon until returning home from a long day’s work, was more than Maureen could imagine. There were so many things made difficult by being alone. And yet there was no one she could trust to ask for help. Surely Mrs. Melkford would be obliged to report their need if she knew. And that could lead to deportation.
Even work, no matter how grateful she was for the job, posed its own threats. Each afternoon Maureen scanned the stairwell before descending and kept her eye on the front door, lest Jaime Flynn surprise her. She hated being beholden to him in any way; she wanted, more than anything, to hand him his thirty dollars the next time she saw him. She could imagine half a dozen explanations for his generosity to her and for his interest in the young girl in the elevator, but none of them comforted her.
Olivia hurried to Meitland House early Saturday morning, intent on arranging fresh centerpieces from the crates of evergreens and roses D
orothy had ordered directly from the docks and the cranberry-scented candles railroaded in from Pennsylvania.
Dorothy brought out their mother’s silver tea service, had it polished to a sheen worthy of catching the late afternoon sun’s gleam across its surface, and instructed the Meitland housekeeper and cook in every detail for the preparation of a spectacular December tea for the Ladies’ Circle from church.
“Perfect,” the sisters sighed in unison as at last they surveyed their combined efforts.
“Did you remind Julia to bring the minutes from last month’s meeting? You know her head’s in a thousand different places.”
Olivia saluted. “Yes, O drill sergeant sister. The remainder of troops will arrive in good order momentarily.”
Dorothy gave Olivia a testy slap but smiled. “I just want everything—just—”
“Just so?” Olivia queried, too innocently.
“Yes.” Her sister smiled. “You know I do.”
Olivia wrapped her arms round Dorothy’s waist in a great and uncharacteristic hug. “I love you.”
“Well, I love you, too.” Dorothy laughed nervously, straightening her brooch. “The bell! They’re here!”
Olivia was relieved that the tea went according to plan; she understood what order and beauty meant to her sister, especially when it came to the attention of their peers. As the meeting was called to order, Olivia hoped that Dorothy would be just as happy when the day was over, when everyone had had their say.
Julia Gresham read the minutes from last month’s meeting, and the floor was opened to the twelve women of the circle.
“We must decide on our focus for the new year,” Agnes Mein, the circle’s leader, ordered. “We’ve foundered a bit since joining with the shirtwaist workers’ strikes last year. It’s time we took on a new project. Now, I think we ought to—”
“I didn’t think much of being branded with the ‘mink brigade,’” Julia interrupted.
Olivia sat straighter. She hadn’t liked it either.
“No,” Agnes allowed. “But I suppose it’s natural that the papers aligned us more with society matrons than with the factory girls.” She raised her hands. “That is why—”
“That is why we need to make our position clear,” Julia insisted. “We’re committed to helping those who need help, not to hosting fashion parades.”
Olivia couldn’t have agreed more but kept her peace to avoid adding to the growing tension.
Agnes’s color rose, but she pressed on. “We’ll open the floor for suggestions for next year’s projects. Now, a number of concerns have been put forth, but we must join forces on one cause or nothing will be accomplished. Carolynn, you have the proposed list.”
Carolynn Gilliston stood and cleared her throat. “We’ve been asked to consider the library’s need for more books, especially in the New York history section. I’ve also noticed,” she said quietly, “that the children’s section could use a wider selection.”
No one responded. Olivia felt a slight pity for her friend, knowing how Carolynn loved children. But other needs are more desperate now.
Carolynn continued. “We have a request to supply the Immigrant Aid Society with more gently worn clothing, especially things the women coming into New York can use in public employment while the weather is cold and then again, in a few months, some things more suitable for warmer weather.” She glanced about the room. “The aid societies have asked that we consider the more practical needs of the women.”
“Practical needs,” Isabella Harris repeated. “What do they mean?”
“They mean,” Julia answered for Carolynn, “that workingwomen do not need last season’s ball gowns. They need skirts and shirtwaists, undergarments, sturdy shoes for walking the streets of New York to work because they can’t afford trolley fare. They mean—”
But Agnes interrupted her. “We understand, Julia. Thank you. Carolynn, please continue.”
“There have been numerous suggestions that we align ourselves with the movement for suffrage and encourage the men of the church to do the same.” She paused. “And then there’s the ongoing plea to assist the garment factory workers and department store clerks—in particular, in their call for higher wages and shorter working hours. A boycott of stores and brands unwilling to unionize or negotiate has been recommended.”
Several women raised their eyebrows significantly and peered at Julia as Carolynn forged ahead. Olivia bit her lip to keep from shouting, “Hear! Hear!”
“We have the proposal, once again, to deliver food and clothing to the tenements, including—”
“As we made clear last year,” Miranda Mason interrupted, “our husbands will never allow us to visit the tenements—never to so much as walk into the streets of those slums. The reverend himself doesn’t go down there!” She drew herself up. “I motion we strike that suggestion from the record.”
To Olivia’s surprise, Julia did not say a word.
“And . . .” Carolynn colored miserably but did not go on.
“What is it?” Agnes demanded.
“And there is a suggestion to boycott the natural wishes of our husbands—those of us who have husbands—until they put forth a political motion to raise the age of consent.”
“The what?” Miranda gasped.
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Julia fumed. “The age of consent—the age a man can force a girl to do his bidding.”
The women stared.
“His sexual bidding,” Julia spelled out.
“We know what it is, Julia!” Agnes gasped. “We simply cannot believe you—”
“We’re gasping over words while ten-year-old girls are forced into prostitution to pay a family’s rent—to survive! The immigrant women pouring into New York don’t make enough money in the factories or the stores to keep body and soul together, much less put food in their children’s mouths once their husbands die or are injured or run west to make their fortune and are never heard from again! No wonder so many turn to or are forced into prostitution. But if we can put the responsibility where it belongs—on the perpetrators—by raising the legal age of consent to—”
“Julia, I think we—” Dorothy began.
“I think we need to ask what is important here! New York history books or the health and safety, the very lives, of women and children!”
Olivia opened her mouth to second Julia, but Agnes overrode her.
“No one disputes the importance of protecting women or children, but we must ask what we, as a group, can do—which causes we can, with all propriety, embrace.” Agnes drew a breath, and the women of the circle nodded in worried agreement.
“And what we, as a circle of churchwomen, can effectively accomplish,” Dorothy added with authority.
Women nodded again.
But Olivia could remain silent no longer. “No.” She spoke quietly but stood. “I don’t think that is the question.”
“Olivia?” Dorothy laid a hand on her sister’s arm.
Olivia squeezed Dorothy’s hand in return but let it drop. “As a group of women committed to helping those in need, I think the question is not what we can accomplish, but what Christ can accomplish through us and how we can follow in His steps.”
“Well, of course it is,” Agnes said. “We know that.”
“Do we?” Olivia asked.
“You’re questioning our sincerity?” Miranda lifted her chin.
“Not at all.”
“Then I—”
“Let her speak!” Julia demanded. “Or I will.”
Olivia suppressed a smile at the silence Julia’s threat provoked. “Even that—how we allow Him to work through us—is the secondary question.” She had their attention. “The most important question of all is, what would Jesus do—here and now?”
The women blinked.
“I don’t think I understand the question,” Agnes ventured.
“What would Jesus do if He were here—right now, in New York City—today? What would He, personally, seek to
change, and how would He go about it?”
Women shifted in their seats, uncomfortably signaling their attention.
“Our cause has always been focused toward women and children,” Agnes reminded her.
“Then,” Olivia continued, “what would Jesus do for the women and children in New York?”
“Well, He certainly wouldn’t allow them to be forced into prostitution!” Julia asserted.
“Nor would He want to see them starve for lack of nourishing food,” Isabella admonished.
“Or freeze to death in those filthy tenements!” Miranda echoed.
“But He didn’t address those things specifically in His time,” Agnes insisted. “Poverty was all around Him. It’s not as if we can do better than He! We can only accomplish so much.”
“I’m not suggesting that we can single-handedly change the face of poverty,” Olivia said. “But I am wondering, if we each asked ourselves, and committed to asking ourselves, ‘What would Jesus do?’ if we might not find clearer answers.”
“I have no idea where this is leading,” Agnes huffed.
“I do,” Dorothy said softly, looking up at her sister. “I remember the story.”
Olivia squeezed her sister’s shoulder, then addressed the group. “When we were young, Father read us weekly issues of the Chicago Advance, and for a time, the paper ran a serialized story by Charles Sheldon.” She paused, hoping there might be a sign of recognition from the ladies, but Agnes shook her head helplessly.
“In the story, the Reverend Maxwell had just preached a normal Sunday sermon in which he’d said that following after Christ requires obedience, faith, love, and imitation. The congregation sang a closing hymn, ‘All for Jesus’—do you remember the words?
“All for Jesus, all for Jesus!
All my being’s ransomed pow’rs:
