She took one last look at the letter before folding it into her skirt pocket and pulling Imogene’s shawl tightly around her. There was no date on the letter; Kassandra had no idea how long ago Reverend Joseph had written it, or how she would ever reply.
Right now, neither question mattered. Ben would have questions of his own.
he youngest Fisher was not the only child Kassandra would see into the world that winter. For the next two months she accompanied Imogene on countless visits. Sometimes the occasion was even a joyous one, as the resounding cheer of a celebrating father toasting his newest child streamed from the open door of a saloon down the street.
That will be Ben, Kassandra would think to herself as she walked past the lighted doorways on her walk back home. She pictured the Mott Street Tavern filled to capacity with well-wishers and Ben standing on top of the bar—glass high in the air—calling three cheers for the newly born prince.
She was a quick study of all Imogene had to teach her. The old woman had no written record of her treatments, but Kassandra listened closely to every word she said. In the blank pages at the back of Clara’s Bible, she began a careful list of every herb in Imogene’s cache. Chamomile, ginger, and peppermint to ease indigestion and heartburn. Also good for morning sickness. Rose hips to treat exhaustion. Nettles—boiled or steamed—to prevent leg cramps and anemia.
“What’re you writin’ in that book?” Ben asked on one of the rare evenings he was home.
Kassandra barely looked up to answer. “Things Imogene taught me.”
“I don’t like you spendin’ so much time with her.”
“You brought her to me. Remember?”
“To take care of you. Not to send you traipsin’ through the city doin’ God knows what.”
Kassandra closed the Bible and carried it over to the bureau, placing it in the top drawer. “It is good for me, Ben. To see those other women.”
“You’re not like those other women. You’re mine.”
“I like feeling needed.”
“I need you. That’s enough.”
In the final weeks of her pregnancy, Kassandra felt a surge of strength like she had never felt before. The rolling child within her was a constant reminder of her tie to Ben, and of the promise he had made to marry her upon its birth. More and more she felt a need to turn their little flat into a proper home, and she gave daily requests to Ben to bring in the necessary additions. Soon there was a tiny cradle tucked into one of the corners and a bright rag rug on the floor. A rocking chair—too cumbersome for the winding stairway—was hoisted through the third-floor window.
As her time grew closer, Kassandra made every effort to keep the apartment clean, lest Imogene be forced to deliver the baby in the midst of clutter and unwashed dishes. Having witnessed so many births, she knew to keep a ready supply of clean, soft cloths in a basket on top of her bureau, right next to her beloved porcelain sparrow. She knew to keep the kettle filled on the stove, ready to heat water for washing the new baby She knew to keep the lamp filled, lest the child come in the middle of the night, and wood stacked next to the little stove so the new life would begin in a warm room.
What she didn’t know was what happened to women in those moments or hours just before she and Imogene burst through the door ready to take matters in hand. When she asked Imogene, the old woman simply said, “You will know”
“How?”
“Your body tell you. Your baby tell you.”
But the communication between Kassandra and her body and her baby was unreliable. In the first weeks of March, every twinge and spasm sent her flying to her window, calling downstairs to the man stationed outside to fetch Ben. Each time Ben stormed into the apartment, pushing Imogene through the door, only to find the crisis over, Kassandra’s body at rest. Each time Kassandra would apologize, begging forgiveness of the unflustered Imogene after Ben, cursing, stormed right back out.
“It seemed so real this time,” she’d say.
“It be real enough someday.”
The real day came the third week in March, when bitter cold wind raced through the New York streets, cutting a path through the buildings, bringing with it stinging scraps of debris. The first pain hit just as Kassandra was clearing away the dinner dishes. Ben had made a courteous appearance, sitting with her for much of the afternoon, apparently to make up for the fact that he would be downstairs in the tavern most of the night.
“Big doin’s this evenin’, love,” he said. “You best be plannin’ on stayin’ up here most of the night.”
“And how would that be different from any other night?” Kassandra asked, feeling grumpy.
“No goin’ off with that Imogene, for one thing.”
“All right, Ben. But you will be just downstairs? Just in case …”
“I’ll be busy Kassie. Got a huge crowd comin’.”
“For what?”
“Nothin’ for you to worry your head about. You just stay up here.”
He left soon after that, and just as Kassandra reached up to put the last dried plate on the shelf, she felt the familiar tightening across her belly.
“Oh,” she said, letting the plate clatter to the shelf.
She grasped the coimtertop with both hands and stood there, waiting for the pain to pass. Once relieved of the contracting pressure, she took a washrag, dipped it in the water basin, and wiped the crumbs from the table. Next she took the broom from the corner and swept up the debris on the floor. Despite her valiant effort, no amount of bending would suffice to hold the dustpan for the little pile, so she lifted the corner of the rag rug, and with one good drag of the bristles, hid it away underneath. She still needed to refill the kettle.
Kassandra was on the second floor landing when the next pain came. No worse than the first, she simply stood on the step, clutched the banister until it passed, then gingerly made her way downstairs into the tavern to fill the kettle from the water pump behind the bar.
Ben’s prediction of the big crowd seemed to be coming true. The Mott Street Tavern was rarely empty, but here it was not even four o’clock and already the place was teeming with men. Kassandra wedged her way through them, hating every moment her belly brushed against some natty vest, trying to ignore the callous comments blown through cigar smoke. She looked up just long enough to scan the crowd for a glimpse of Ben, hoping to ask him to fill the kettle for her and bring it upstairs. When she saw him standing at the tavern door, engaged in angry conversation with a strange man in a bright green suit, she thought better of it and made her way to the bar. Stymie, the barkeep, obviously irritated at the interruption, snatched the kettle out of her hand and gave it back with even less courtesy.
“Get back upstairs before you drop that litter on my floor,” he said, drawing raised glasses and laughter from the men gathered at the bar.
Kassandra recoiled at his words. “What did you say to me?”
“I said get upstairs. We got fifteen girls workin’ here tonight. You’re gonna make the gents lose their appetites.”
More laughter, and Kassandra spun with all the dignity her girth would allow and made her way to Ben.
“The deal we struck was thirty percent of the takin’s,” he was saying to the dapper man in the green suit, “and you won’t go changin’ that on me now.”
The man took a long draw on his thin cigar before taking it out of his mouth. He held it almost daintily between his thumb and first finger and tapped the ash with his third. The other two sported heavy gold rings that clicked with the action.
“Mr. Connor,” he said, “that was the deal made for the use of King Pit. But now I’m bringing in a Manchester terrier, the likes of which these people have never seen before. He’ll bring in twice the money. Even at twenty percent, you’ll be taking in more—”
“Thirty,” Ben said. “Thirty or it’s off.”
“Not a wise threat, Mr. Connor. You’ll have a lot of very disappointed men on your hands.”
“And I’ll see to it tha
t you never—”
“Ben,” Kassandra said, tugging his arm even as he pointed a ¿er that stopped just short of the dapper man’s thick moustache.
“Kassie! What in blazes are you doin’ down here?”
The dapper man smiled and chomped down on his cigar, stepping back to allow room for Kassandra to stand between them.
“The barkeep—Stymie, he—”
“Go back upstairs.”
“He was very rude to me just now. Insulted me.”
“I said get back upstairs.”
“Ben, you have to know what he said.”
“I don’t have to know anythin’, Kassandra.” He glanced over her shoulder to the man standing behind her, then pulled her close. “Don’t do this to me now.”
“But Ben! You have to—”
“Not now.”
Just then another pain seized her, and she inhaled sharply and gritted her teeth, focusing on the feel of the kettle’s handle.
“Are you all right, Kassie?”
“Yes, I just …” She pulled him closer to her and whispered in his ear, “I think the baby might be coming.”
Ben pulled away and looked at her with a suspicious glint in his green eyes. “Again?”
“Truly. It is different this time. It has happened three or four—”
“Mr. Connor? Sir?”
It was young Ryan. Kassandra had seen him often on the fringes of whatever activity surrounded Ben. He stood there now, next to a barrel that would have been nearly as tall as he was that afternoon in the back room. He had grown nearly three inches since then, and stood with his elbow jauntily perched on the barrel’s rim.
“Are ya daft?” Ben said, impervious to the boy’s wide smile. “Take that through the back.”
“Hold up there, young man,” Green Suit said. “How many have you got in there?”
“At least fifty,” Ryan said, beaming. “And there’s another kid comin’ with more.”
“Well, that’s a fair job at least.” Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, peeling off two and handing them to Ryan. “See that James gets half of that. I’ll be askin’ him.”
Ryan’s smile grew even bigger as he stuffed the cash into his pocket.
“Now wait,” the other man said, reaching into his own pocket and pulling out a gold coin.
“No, sir,” Ben said. “I pay my men myself.”
“Nothing says the lad can’t accept a gratuity.”
Ryan looked for Ben’s nod of approval before snatching the coin. He dropped the barrel to its side, and a series of muffled scratches and squeaks emitted from within. Rolling it slowly, he made his way toward the alley. Behind him, Kassandra could see another boy engaged in a similar pursuit. He wore no cap, and the unruly brown hair was shaved clean to his scalp, but he wore the characteristic green kerchief around his neck. He looked up just as he passed the doorway, and she noticed a thin scar slicing one dark brow nearly in half, and a slight unnatural angle to his nose.
He’s Ben’s boy now.
“What is all of this?” Kassandra said.
“Ah, Kassie, haven’t you learned by now not to ask me that?” Ben planted a quick kiss on the top of her head and, placing his hands on her shoulders, turned her away from him. “Now go on upstairs. Come find me if you need to.”
Nearly an hour passed before Kassandra felt another pain. Changed into her nightgown, she was lying on their bed, head buried between two pillows to drown out the noise from downstairs. Just when it seemed the previous contractions had been yet another exercise in false labor, another came, stronger than before.
She had to find Ben.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed but found herself unable to stand. On her knees, her hands clutching Ben’s mother’s quilt, Kassandra waited for the contraction to subside. It lasted longer than the others, and as she knelt beside her bed, the memory of her long-abandoned nightly ritual of prayer seeped through the pain.
“Oh, God,” she cried into the darkness. “I know You see me. You always see me. Help me, Father God. Give me strength.”
When her body was once again relaxed, Kassandra stood and made her way to the table in the center of the room. She groped in the darkness, found the lamp and lit it, filling the room with soft light. She left it on the table as a beacon to lead her safely back and walked out of the apartment into the dark hallway.
A boisterous crowd in the Mott Street Tavern was not unusual, but Kassandra was little prepared for the onslaught of noise that greeted her as early as the third-floor landing. Even the clouds of cigar smoke seemed to have snaked their way up the stairway, stinging her eyes as she waded through it. Feeling weak, Kassandra paused just long enough on the second-floor landing to witness the crowd of men lined up in the hallway. She thought back to the barkeep’s comment about her “spoiling the appetite” of the men who stood waiting for their turn behind the closed doors. She tugged the shawl she had thrown over her nightgown and kept her body close to the wall, hiding in the shadows as she turned the corner to descend to the first floor.
Kassandra remembered the eerie glow cast from the red-tinted globes that lined the walls of the back room behind the tavern, and she was surprised to see that crimson light waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. For as long as she had been living with Ben, she had never known the back room to be in use, except for the afternoon’s discipline of the young thief. Now she realized that the noisy crowd was not assembled in the tavern, but here in this back room, and as she reached the bottom step, what was normally a vacant, echoing chamber was now a sea of men. The density of their cigar smoke combined with the red hue, making it impossible for Kassandra to see clearly across the room. She called out for Ben exactly once, but her voice got lost in the smoky din.
Then suddenly the noise of the crowd came to an abrupt halt. Kassandra stepped back into the stairwell, allowing only her head to peek around the corner. Leaning against the wall for support, she felt the pain of another contraction coming on and stifled her cry with one balled fist brought to her mouth.
She soon realized that the silence had to do with a small procession making its way in from the door that opened to the back alley. At the front of the procession were Ben and the dapper man in the green suit, and they were carrying a small wire cage, about three-foot square. They came to the raised platform in the middle of the room, climbed over the wooden fence pickets, and deposited the cage onto the floor, the fence pickets obscuring its contents.
“Gentlemen!” Ben said, turning in a slow circle to take in the audience with a wide, sweeping gesture. “I give you Queen Sheba!”
With a flourish, the dapper man unhinged the top of the cage and lifted out a smallish dog, muscle-bound and writhing to get free. The crowd erupted.
Kassandra’s pain intensified, and she sank to her knees, no longer worried, or hopeful, that her cries would bring Ben to her. She shouldn’t be here. He had told her to stay away, and now she knew why. But until the pain subsided, she had no choice.
“Bring ’em in, boys!” Ben’s voice somehow carried across the cheering crowd.
Young Ryan and James worked together bringing one of the barrels—now upright on a small hand truck—to the edge of the ring. Queen Sheba was returned to her cage, amid much canine protesting, and the two men stepped out of the ring. Ben produced a crowbar to pry the lid off the barrel, then using a set of metal tongs, he reached into the barrel and pulled out one screaming, squirming rat.
Kassandra knelt, breathless against the wall, her face pressed close to the rough plaster. She closed her eyes against the awful vision, but nothing could block out the sound. The frantic barks of Queen Sheba. The squealing rats. The voices of the men as they counted in unison—“Thirty-five! Thirty-six! Thirty-seven!”— numbering the rats to be killed by Queen Sheba. Kassandra counted with them, measuring the seconds left until the pain would subside, but when the men reached “Fifty!” with a resounding cheer, she was nowhere near relief.
“Now, gentlemen!” Ben called out. “The time to beat is three minutes! This man here will keep the time. All bets are in!”
The pitch of the screaming rats transcended the roar of the men, and no matter how hard Kassandra pressed the heels of her hands against her ears, nothing would block it out. The only blessing was the fact that the piercing of the screams distracted her from the pain of her own body. She curled herself closer to the wall, willing her senses to be deprived, and waited for the strength to stand.
Then, a new sensation, a new pressure, just between her shoulders. A new sound—“Miss Kassandra?”—barely discernible against the muffled, piercing screams of the rats.
“Miss Kassandra!”
She allowed one eye to open and turned her head. Sean knelt beside her, his long features a mask of concern. His lips moved, but she couldn’t hear, so she gingerly lifted one hand.
“What are you doin’ here, Miss Kassandra?”
“Get Ben.”
Sean looked around nervously. “Can you stand?”
“Get Ben!”
“Come on.” He grasped Kassandra’s elbow and helped her to her feet. “Lean on me.”
Kassandra’s body once again relaxed just as a voice in the crowded room yelled, “Time!” Before being led up the stairs, she. suffered one more look over her shoulder and saw the writhing dog, its muzzle covered in blood, being carried out of the ring to be put back in its cage. Meanwhile, a smiling Ben once again held the metal tongs and leaned over the picketed border of the ring to pull up one limp and lifeless rat.
“One!” the men began counting again.
Kassandra didn’t know if she made it up the stairs under her own power or by the strength of Sean’s strong arm around her waist. She did know that she had never seen a sight as welcoming as the light streaming from underneath her door, and nothing ever felt so welcome as the soft mattress beneath her.
Speak Through the Wind Page 13
