Speak Through the Wind

by Allison Pittman

“Oh, it is true.” Mr. Kinley nervously fumbled with the apron that covered a pair of stained, brown striped trousers and a sweat-soaked shirt. He wore small round spectacles, and try as he might to hold eye contact with Ben, his gaze was soon darting past him, to the small gathering of Branagans, all with shorn hair and jaunty caps, who seemed to have come from out of nowhere to gather in a loose semicircle behind Ben. “It’s just—uh—I been robbed, Mr. Connor. Three times this week.”

  “I know you have, Kinley. My boys told me.” Ben gestured grandly behind him. “My men haven’t caught up with him, yet.”

  “Well, ha!” Kinley said, like a man taken with a sudden draught of courage. “Guess what? I got him! Myself! Got him locked in my cellar!” He rubbed his hands together in pudgy glee. “Gonna take him to the police! I just been waitin’ for you to come around so I could tell you to your face.”

  Kassandra, in wide-eyed shock, watched as the grocer brought his sausagelike finger up to emphasize the last three words, its tip landing just short of Ben’s nose. Her gaze landed on Ben’s eyes, green and narrowed to mere slits. Then they crinkled, just at the edges, the way they always did when he smiled. But this wasn’t the smile that could warm her heart and make her laugh when the world around her seemed frightening. This was the smile that sometimes made it so.

  “Bring the boy out to me,” Ben said, and although he did not break his gaze with Kinley, the message was clearly intended for the young men behind him. Two of them broke rank, walked through the grocer’s open door, and emerged minutes later dragging a ragged, bony, barefoot boy who shook his head to clear away a shank of dirty brown hair to shoot Ben a look of utter defiance.

  “Take ’im to Mott’s. I’ll be there directly.”

  In one swift movement, the two men half dragged the boy toward Mott Street. Kassandra watched them go, but when the boy turned his head and sent his hatred into her own eyes, she looked away.

  Mr. Kinley, meanwhile, had lowered his hand and was once again fumbling with his apron. He seemed to have grown shorter in the intervening moments, his courage completely dissipated, leaving him with a deflated demeanor.

  “Now, Kinley,” Ben said, his voice still controlled, “you know I don’t want police takin’ care of my business.”

  “He robbed my store three times!”

  “Whose store?”

  “Listen Connor, this here is my place.”

  “Maybe so,” Ben said, edging closer to the little grocer, “but it’s on my street. An’ me and my boys handle the business on my street.”

  “And just where were your boys when this hooligan was stealing my inventory?” Kinley said, his jaw set, his jowl quivering.

  Ben turned his gaze upward as if in deep thought. Then he shrugged and said, “You have a point, Kinley. The boy’s a sneaky one—got away from us. Tell you what. For your inconvenience, I can forgive this week’s payment. Sound fair?”

  Mr. Kinley clutched and unclutched his fists, dangling at his side, as if trying to pump himself full of the strength he would need for his reply “No disrespect, Connor, but I don’t think I want to fall in with you no more.”

  Ben chuckled. “Are you quite sure? Because you do have a fine establishment runnin’ here. I’d hate to see any harm come to it.”

  For the first time, Ben looked away from Mr. Kinley, turning his gaze behind him to the burned-out pile of rubble just over his left shoulder. Kassandra followed suit, as did Mr. Kinley.

  “You just think on it, Mr. Kinley,” Ben said, holding out his hand, “and I’ll check back with you personally in a few days.”

  Mr. Kinley held out his hand to shake Ben’s. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Connor,” he said, before turning on his heel and walking back inside.

  For all Kassandra knew, Ben had forgotten that she was even there as he set his jaw and strode, arms tensed and swinging at his side, back to Mott Street. His remaining men followed suit, and Kassandra had to push her way through their ranks to get close to Ben.

  “What are you going to do to that boy?” she asked, practically running beside him.

  “Not now, Kassie.” He didn’t stop or speak again until he was swinging open the door of the Mott Street Tavern. He turned to address his men, saying something in Gaelic, which they repeated back to him in one solemn voice before dispersing into the street.

  Although the people of the neighborhood thought nothing of spending entire afternoons drinking in the tavern, on this day the place was practically empty. The usual permanent fixtures kept their place at the bar, and some of the women Kassandra recognized from their silent passing on the stairs occupied the tables, but there was no warm greeting of Ben as he burst across the threshold. In fact, no one was speaking at all—not even Hamlet, a regular at the swill barrel who could recite any Shakespearean sonnet at the drop of a shot.

  Kassandra followed Ben through the large room to the closed door at the back. She had never seen this room before. She had walked through it several times, as it was necessary to do so to get to the stairs, but, windowless, it had always been drenched in black. Now, though, several sconces lining the wall were lit, their glass bowls tinted to give the room a dim red light, revealing that it was larger than she had expected it to be—nearly half the size of the tavern at the front. The walls were roughly plastered and irreverently whitewashed; the floor was nothing but hard-packed dirt. Besides the odd, mismatched chair, there wasn’t a stick of furniture in the room. At its center was a round, raised platform, bordered on all sides by three-foot fence pickets, each cut to a sharp spike at the top and placed so close together that she doubted even her tiniest finger could wedge between them.

  Standing in the center of the platform was Mr. Kinley’s little thief, his hands clasped behind him as if bound. Just behind him was Sean, his trademark cap pulled low over his dark eyes, his hand clapped firmly on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Go upstairs, Kassandra,” Ben said, not looking at her.

  “What are you going to—”

  “Now!” He turned to face her then, his lips curled to a snarl.

  Kassandra hesitated just long enough to look at the boy one more time before she turned and ran up the stairs. Once she was safely on the third-floor landing, she turned back and descended again, walking on the balls of her feet, the worn leather of her shoes silent, just as she had many an afternoon when Ben was waiting for her in Clara’s kitchen. She stopped on the third step, far enough down that she could, by craning her neck, watch the scene unfold, but back far enough to remain undetected.

  “Now what’s your name, son?” Ben was asking. His back was to Kassandra, but she could tell by the tone of his voice that he was wearing the friendly face.

  “J-James,” the boy said. Kassandra’s view of him was blocked by Ben’s wide shoulders, but she could hear a hint of fear in his voice.

  “An’ tell me, James. How old are ya?”

  “I dunno … twelve?”

  “Go get young Ryan,” Ben said, directing the order to his man, who immediately cleared the fence pickets with one long stride and left the room. Kassandra flattened herself against the wall, lest a causal glance up the stairwell reveal her presence.

  “Here now, James,” Ben said, “let’s get you out of there to come talk to me.” He reached his arms over the fence and lifted the boy up and over it, as if the child weighed no more than a puppy. Once the boy was deposited on the packed earth, Ben bent at the knees, bringing himself eye level with the boy who shrank back.

  “You stole from Mr. Kinley.”

  The boy said nothing, only looked at the ground.

  “Did no one ever tell you that stealin’ is wrong?”

  As if infused with newfound strength, young James looked up with narrowed eyes. “Don’t tell me you never stole no thin’, ya lousy mick. Everyone knows there ain’t an Irishman alive what ain’t—”

  “We’re not talkin’ about me right now, James,” Ben said, his voice cool, controlled. “You’re not from this part of the neigh
borhood, are you?”

  “You think you know every kid on the block?”

  “I do, James. I make it my business to know. Now where do you live?”

  “Bowery.”

  “So what’re you doin’ in my neighborhood? Too scared to rob the stores down there?”

  “I ain’t scared of nothin’!”

  “Ah, but they know you there, don’t they? Know you for the little thief that you are.” Ben laid his hand in the thick mass of the boy’s hair, giving it a comforting tussle. “You’re just hungry, aren’t ya, James?”

  Kassandra didn’t need to hear the boy’s voice to know his answer.

  “Listen, son, there’s no shame in bein’ hungry,” Ben said. “But stealin’ from another man? There’s no honor in that.”

  Just then the door leading to the tavern opened, and the man called Sean came back in. With him was another boy, probably no more than twelve or thirteen, sporting the same style cap and green neckerchief as did all of Ben’s men, walking with his abnormally broad shoulders thrust back, his fists balled.

  “You sent for me, Mr. Connor?” the boy said. The high pitch of his voice made all of his outward bravado that much more startling.

  “Ryan, this is James,” Ben said, as if making introductions at a social gathering in a formal parlor. “James has been stealing from Mr. Kinley’s grocery. Offer your hand.”

  Kassandra had assumed that the boy’s hands were bound behind him, but when young Ryan held out his hand, James brought his own out from hiding and engaged in a friendly greeting while his eyes darted between Ben and Sean.

  “Now,” Ben continued, “it’s important for young James here to understand that I have an obligation to Mr. Kinley, and to the other shops on my block. Can you guess what that obligation is, James?”

  James, fast losing his defiant edge, said nothing.

  “That obligation,” Ben continued, pacing now in a series of little steps that cast a rhythmic shadow across the boy’s face, “is to keep louts like you from harmin’ their business.” He gave an almost imperceptible nod to Sean, who moved behind James and grabbed the boy’s arms just above the elbow and held him so tightly that James emitted a quiet gasp of pain. “Ryan, show young James here what happens to a thief on my block.”

  Ryan, the tip of his cap barely clearing Ben’s elbow, gave a quick jump of glee before landing a solid punch right in the middle of James’s stomach. The blow seemed to suck out every ounce of breath in the boy’s body. Sean let go of his grip and moved away from the boys, taking a guardian’s stance at the door. James doubled over in pain, and young Ryan’s left hook caught him square in the mouth—unhinged by the shock of the first hit—and sent him reeling for two or three steps before he fell, face-first, onto the dirt floor.

  “Stop it!” Kassandra cried, hurtling herself from her hiding place in the dark stairwell. She headed toward the boy writhing and moaning on the ground, but Ben’s strong hand caught her, jerking her arm until she felt it would be snapped from her body

  “I told you to wait upstairs.”

  “You cannot do this!” Kassandra continued to struggle despite the pain.

  “Take her,” Ben said, shoving her into Sean. When she made another attempt to run to James’s aid, Sean gripped her hard across the waist and lifted her nearly an inch off the floor so that her feet—still running—treaded helplessly in the air.

  In the meantime, James had somehow found the strength to stand up, though his thin shoulders still hunched. Blood trickled, unchecked, from his swollen lip. Ryan stood poised before him, shifting his weight from one foot to another, looking like a cat ready to pounce on its prey.

  “Can I hit ’im again, Mr. Connor?” he asked, his voice full of hope.

  “Let him get his breath,” Ben said. “Make it a fair fight.”

  “I ain’t—” James started, then spat a mouthful of blood before continuing, “I ain’t gonna fight no lousy Catholic, Mary-prayin’—”

  Ryan flew at the boy, his open palms flat against the caved-in chest, sending James flat on his back. Ryan pounced on top of him, his knees pinning James’s arms to the ground as he delivered a series of blows to the boy’s face—his own face red in the room’s eerie hue and his mouth spewing spittle and curses.

  “That’s enough, Ryan,” Ben said, but the boy may not have heard him, as Kassandra was screaming the same command. The boy didn’t stop his assault until Ben walked over to him and caught his blood-smeared fist in midair. His other hand grasped the back of Ryan’s collar, and he lifted the boy off his victim. “Go on now, boy You’ve done your bit,” he said, almost affectionately, and Ryan stalked out of the room without so much as a glance back.

  “Now for you, son,” Ben said, squatting to the floor and peering into James’s face. “Can you get up?”

  He held out a hand to help James off the ground, but the boy slapped it away.

  “I don’t need no help.”

  He valiantly stood to his feet and brushed off his pants, as if he had experienced little more than a trip over a loose floorboard. His face, however, told a different story. Bright red continued to spill from his mouth, from his slightly altered nose, and from a gash just above his left eyebrow. The eye below it was swollen shut, the first tendrils of purple bruising creeping along his cheekbone. The other eye, while still open, was caught in a series of fluttering spasms, though none of the defiant glare was lost.

  “He just got me by surprise is all. Let me have at him in a fair fight, and 111 show—”

  Ben held up his hand, laughing, and said, “There, there, son. You’ve proven yourself plenty this afternoon. Not many a boy could take a beatin’ like that and get up from it.”

  There was a decided break in the tension of the room, and Kassandra felt Sean’s grip on her go slack, allowing her to twist out of his arm and walk over to where James and Ben stood. She reached into the pocket of her skirt and took out a white handkerchief and brought it up to dab up some of the blood flowing over the swollen eye. James took the handkerchief from her to staunch the flow from his nose. Kassandra reached for the boy, wanting to pull him close and pat him the way Clara sometimes had, but just as her fingers grazed his shirt, James pulled away, shrugging off her attempted embrace, radiating pride behind the blood-seeped cloth.

  “Tell me, son,” Ben said, resuming his earlier stance, hands on his knees, bent to look into James’s eye. “D’you have a mother?”

  “Course I got a mother.”

  “What I mean to ask,” Ben said, calmly and patiently, “is if your mother is still livin’. Does she take care of you?”

  “She’s sick.” James broke eye contact for the first time, looking at the ground.

  “I see.”

  Ben stood to his full height, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the handful of the bills he had so diligently collected on his route that afternoon. At the sight of the money, James’s good eye fluttered as wide as it was able, though the reaction seemed to bring him considerable pain. Ben continued to manipulate the bills until satisfied with a particular amount, which he folded into a compact bundle and slipped into the boy’s front pocket.

  “There’s ten dollars there,” he said, bending low again and grasping James by the shoulders. “You take it home, give it straight to your ma. Tell her the truth. Tell her you were caught for a thief and you paid for your crime. D’you understand me?”

  James nodded, apparently on the verge of shedding the first tear of this incredible afternoon.

  “An’ the next time you’re hungry” Ben said, standing, “you come and find me. I’ll put you to work. Are we square?” Ben held out his hand and waited patiently while James transferred the handkerchief from his right hand to his left in order to shake it. “Now, d’you remember my name?”

  “B-Ben Connor.”

  “Good. Now, Sean here is goin’ to take you up front and get you a bite to eat.” Sean nodded and stepped aside to open the door. “Then he’s goin’ to see you home.
”

  “I don’t need no one to—”

  “If that other eye swells up the way it looks like it’s goin’ to,” Ben said, his patience coming into play again, “you won’t be able to see your way home. Plus, you’re walkin’ ‘round with a fortune there. You need someone to guard it.”

  Sean gently, almost fatherly, laid a hand across the boy’s back and ushered him through the door.

  Ben and Kassandra faced each other in the room’s red light. Every bit of the gentle tolerance Ben had exhibited was immediately erased as he glared at Kassandra through eyes narrowed to green slits, his lips set and narrow. His expression, though, however intimidating he intended it to be, would not deter her. She set her hands firmly on her hips and gave back an equally icy stare, barely needing to tip her chin to meet his gaze directly.

  “That was awful, what you did,” she said.

  “I told you to go upstairs.” He turned away from her and walked over to the sconce on the wall, reaching up to turn down the wick and kill the flame.

  “He is just a little boy,” Kassandra said, keeping just half a step behind Ben as he made his way to the next light. “How could you beat him like that?”

  “First of all, he’s not a little boy. He’s not much younger than you. What’s more,” Ben continued, turning toward Kassandra after extinguishing another flame, “I’m not the one who beat ’im, was I? Rest assured, Kassie, if I take it to my mind to knock someone down, I’ll see to it he never gets up again.”

  He leaned over to place a gentle kiss on the tip of her nose, then doused the final three lamps. The room was now black as pitch, and the only hope Kassandra had of escaping it was through the clutch of Ben’s warm, dry hand.

  t was Ben who first realized that Kassandra was pregnant. Not because of the early morning retching into the porcelain bowl tucked under the corner cabinet or the overwhelming fits of fatigue that sent her up to the bed on stifling August afternoons for hours on end. He simply noted one September afternoon that she hadn’t had a “woman’s time” since she had come to be with him.