Down the Rabbit Hole

by Susan Campbell Bartoletti

  “That’s true,” said Peter. “But should we expect our workers to leave their customs and habits and convictions and principles behind? Why are we surprised when they bring their desire for better working conditions here to America?”

  Peter scowled and grew quiet. Oh, dear, I thought, as his scowl deepened. Did I make Peter angry? Did I say too much? At home, Father would have enjoyed such a discussion. He liked to hear my opinions. “Would you like to debate or discuss?” That’s what Father would say. If I chose debate, he would happily take the opposing side, just for fun.

  Suddenly, Peter slapped the table and jumped up. “Pringle!” he shouted. “Thank you! You have given me an idea for my editorial!” He grabbed his coat and hat and headed back to his office.

  Friday, September 15, 1871

  This morning, Peter said, “Gideon, how would you like to work for me?”

  “How much?” said Gideon.

  Peter said fifteen cents.

  Gideon said fifty cents.

  “Gideon!” I said. “Mind your manners!”

  But Peter said, “Every worker deserves the right to negotiate honest wages for an honest day’s work.”

  To Gideon, he said, “Twenty-five cents,” and Gideon said, “Yes,” and Peter said, “You drive a hard bargain.” He held out his hand for Gideon to shake.

  We’ve only spent one week with the Pritchards, and my brother has converted from Capitalist to Proletariat.

  Later

  It’s nearly a straight walk to Peter’s office. Gideon walked with great purpose, swinging his arms and whistling.

  “Look at his self-importance,” said Peter. “That’s what honest work and fair wages do for a man.”

  We passed the South Side Gas Works and the Armory and Police Court and then turned onto Madison. Peter’s office building sits just three blocks from the Courthouse. The building is three stories tall. As we clomped up the dark stairway, I could hear the offices humming with activity.

  Peter has rented two rooms on the third floor. On the door facing the landing, the words LABOR’S LAMP glowed in gilt lettering on frosted glass.

  Peter puffed with pride as he turned the key. The front room was stuffy and crammed with furniture, papers, and books. Two desks were stacked with papers and books. Still more papers and books cluttered bookcases and tables. The waste cans overflowed with crumpled papers.

  “You know what they say,” said Peter. “A cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind.”

  “It’s better than an empty desk,” I said.

  Peter laughed. “You’re a very smart girl.”

  He lifted the window. A breeze passed through, fluttering scraps of paper hanging from nails driven into the wall behind Peter’s desk. Naggers, Peter called them, because each scrap nagged him about something important, a quotation he liked, an idea for an editorial, or an overdue bill to pay.

  Peter led us to the small back room, taken up by a tall iron printing press. “The big newspapers use steam-operated presses,” said Peter. “Here, we print by hand.”

  To Gideon, he said, “Can you count to one hundred?”

  “Easy,” said Gideon.

  “Good,” said Peter. “After we print the run, you’ll count out one hundred newspapers and tie them with string for the newsboys to hawk.”

  Peter showed Gideon the closet where the broom, dustpan, bucket, and mop were kept. “Your job is to sweep the floors, empty the trash, and tidy the office,” said Peter.

  Gideon was beside himself with joy. To think he was getting paid to count and sweep!

  Just as I turned to leave, Peter wrote something on a scrap of paper and poked it through a nail. “God helps those who can’t help themselves,” it said.

  My hand flew to my heart. Those were Miss Ringwald’s very words.

  Saturday, September 16, 1871

  Hot! These days dry a person out! And still no sign of rain.

  The courthouse bell tolled and fire trucks thundered past us as Gideon and I headed to Peter’s office. Smoke curled up from a west-side neighborhood across the river.

  Gideon begged to follow the firemen, but I said no, that he’s a worker now and that he has a job to do. Angry! He stomped all the way to Peter’s office.

  Later, three more fires broke out on Canal, Washington, and Franklin streets. Peter took Gideon to see the Franklin Street fire. With glowing eyes, Gideon told us how the firemen ran around, shouting orders and hosing down the fire with streams of water, and how the hoses turned the streets to mud.

  “When I grow up, I want to be a fireman,” he said, and Peter said, “That’s good. Chicago needs all the firemen it can get.”

  Peter said the city had 669 fires last year. 669! That made Gideon worry that there wouldn’t be any fires left for him when he’s old enough to be a fireman.

  Sunday, September 17, 1871

  This evening Gideon and I attended services with Gwen and Peter and the children at the Methodist Church on Clark Street. The minister gave a lovely sermon that exercised my mind. The hymns exercised my lungs and vocal cords.

  Methodists, it seems, are determined to show they can sing louder and faster and with more courage than anyone else. But the tunes are catchy and now “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling” keeps running through my head.

  Imagine that! Pringle Rose, a Methodist!

  Monday, September 18, 1871

  A terrible tragedy has befallen a poor family not far from Peter’s office. Yesterday, a mother locked her two young children, ages five and three, in the kitchen while she attended morning church services.

  A policeman spotted smoke coming from the house and turned in the fire alarm. The neighbors heard the children’s cries, but by the time they broke down the door, the children had died from smoke inhalation.

  The newspaper says the mother is crazy with grief. She is a widow and has no family. Why would a mother leave her children alone?

  Tuesday, September 19, 1871

  So intently was Peter looking over large sheets of the Labor’s Lamp with his assistant, an older colored man named Mr. Wallace, that the two men didn’t notice Gideon and me.

  “The proofs look good,” said Peter to Mr. Wallace. “Go on home.”

  Mr. Wallace shook his head. “I’ll stay until you’re finished.”

  “I’m working late,” said Peter, moving papers and books to clear a space on his desk. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

  “You got another letter today.”

  Peter waved off Mr. Wallace’s words. “It proves nothing except that someone is reading our little newspaper.”

  “This one’s uglier than the others, Peter.”

  Peter pulled out his chair sharply, sat, and mulled over papers on his desk. Without looking up, he shooed the older man away. “Go home or I’ll fire you.”

  Mr. Wallace laughed. “You can’t fire me, Peter. You know I hid the key to the toilet room.”

  “That key is the only reason I haven’t fired you.”

  “I know,” piped Gideon.

  The two men noticed us for the first time. Mr. Wallace held one finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

  Gideon buttoned his lip.

  Mr. Wallace pulled his cap over his head. “You are too headstrong for your own good, Peter Pritchard.” Mr. Wallace closed the door behind him. His footsteps creaked down the hall and down the stairs.

  Peter’s eyes met mine. “How much of that did you hear?”

  “Everything,” I said, eyeing the letters on his desk.

  Peter stuck the letters in his desk drawer. “Mr. Wallace doesn’t know the difference between a threat and an opinion,” he said, but I know Peter was lying to me.

  Wednesday, September 20, 1871

  How to Make Black Pudding

  Take three q
uarts of sheep’s blood. Add one spoonful of salt. Boil a quart of fine hominy in enough water to let the hominy swell.

  While the hominy is cooking, pound nutmeg, mace, cloves, and allspice. Cut one pound of hog’s fat into small bits. Add parsley, sage, sweet herbs, and one pint of bread crumbs. Add one pound of hog’s fat. Mix well. Add the hominy and blood and mix well again.

  Stuff this mixture into cleaned pork skins from intestine. Tie links. Prick skins so that the sausages don’t burst. Boil twenty minutes. Cover the puddings with clean straw until they’re cold.

  Friday, September 22, 1871

  Day after day, it’s the patter of little feet. Some days I feel as though I’m being ordered around by mice and rabbits. I feel like Alice growing taller and then smaller, struggling to find her right size. It’s a curious sort of life, but the busyness helps with the sadness I sometimes feel.

  The key to managing three small children is a system. Here is our daily routine: In the morning, I dress the children, make them tea and toast and boiled egg or porridge, make them eat tea and toast and boiled egg or porridge, make them clean up after themselves, and make them do their morning lessons.

  All this while, I am flying from the table to the cookstove, where I’m fixing the midday meal, soup or stew or potatoes in their jackets. I make them eat (again!), make them clean up after themselves (again!), and then it’s afternoon naps for Lucy and Sallie.

  I hate to see Sallie cry when I put her to bed. Her little lip sticks out and pure betrayal crosses her face. She sobs inconsolably for five minutes and then plops herself facedown and falls asleep. While Sallie naps, I walk Gideon to work, and then come straight home and run around, tidying the house and making the evening meal.

  At seven, it’s growing dark and I am tired to the bone. Peter and Gideon walk home together. All through supper, Gideon talks a blue streak about work. He is so full of self-importance that you’d think he owns the newspaper!

  Then it’s time to clear the dishes and wash the dishes and ready the children for bed and read to Adam, Lucy, and Gideon.

  After that, my head is so thick with tiredness that I collapse on the bedding in the corner of the room that I share with the children. This morning, Gideon told me I snore.

  Saturday, September 23, 1871

  Gideon found a mother cat and four kittens in an alley near Peter’s office building. The kittens’ eyes are opened, and that means they’re at least ten days old. Peter says the cat and her kittens can stay, but Gideon will have to find homes for the kittens as soon as they’re old enough to leave their mother. Gideon made them a comfortable bed out of rags in the broom closet.

  Sunday, September 24, 1871

  True to their spiritual nature, Adam and Gideon slept through this evening’s sermon, but as soon as the benediction was given, they turned as awake as owls and chased each other home.

  The nights are so hot that that the air feels like a hand pressing down on me, and each time I breathe, I am gulping hot air. Through the open window, I can hear the distant ringing of the courthouse bell and the clang of the fire trucks, but I do little more than roll over and fall back to sleep. I told this to Gwen and she said, “Pringle, you are a true Chicagoan.”

  Monday, September 25, 1871

  Too and Two

  Tonight Peter wriggled his eyebrows and said, “Why should the number two hundred and eighty-eight never be mentioned in mixed company?”

  Gwen grew alarmed. “Peter! The children!”

  Peter said, “You’re right. The answer is too gross.”

  Gwen flapped her napkin at Peter, pretending to be annoyed, but I could tell she was trying not to laugh.

  “What does ‘too gross’ mean?” asked Adam.

  Peter and Gwen were too busy giggling to hear, and so Adam asked me, “What does ‘too gross’ mean?”

  “If you have twelve eggs, how many eggs do you have?” I said.

  “One dozen,” said Adam.

  “If you have twelve dozen eggs, you have one hundred and forty-four eggs. One hundred and forty-four is one gross. So two gross are twenty-four dozen, or two hundred and eighty-eight eggs.”

  “What’s so funny about that?” said Lucy. “I can’t count that high.”

  “I can,” said Gideon, and he started to count. “1 — 2 — 3 —”

  I tried to discourage him, but Peter said, “No, let’s hear Gideon count,” and Gideon did, all the way to two hundred and eighty-eight.

  Peter pounded his fist on the table. “Two gross!” he yelled.

  Adam pounded the table. “Two gross!” he yelled, just like his father.

  Gideon pounded the table and yelled “two gross!” and smiled the biggest smile since “Mouse!” on the train.

  Wednesday, September 27, 1871

  A letter arrived for Gwen today, and she tore it open and hopped around as if the floorboards had turned to hot coals. “Cager! He’s coming to visit!”

  Cager is Gwen’s younger brother. He is seventeen. “He’ll be sweet on you,” she said.

  Pure, unadulterated guilt crossed her face. “I told him all about you,” she confessed. “Do you have a sweetheart already, Pringle? Somebody special back home?”

  I was scrubbing behind Lucy’s ears — honestly, that child could grow potatoes there — and stopped in my tracks. Gwen’s question caused a host of feelings to swim to the surface.

  Gwen noticed that, and she apologized, “I shouldn’t have asked such a personal question. I’m sorry, Pringle. It’s just that, well, I really don’t know that much about you, do I?”

  Well, no, Gwen doesn’t, and so I can’t expect her to know the longing that her question raised in me. Was Rabbit my sweetheart? Perhaps once upon a time, another rabbit hole ago.

  Watching Peter and Gwen together makes me wonder: It’s clear that they come from two different worlds and yet they have forged a happy life together. Was such a life possible for me, with someone like Rabbit?

  Friday, September 29, 1871

  A Message for Peter

  It was growing dark as I headed to Peter’s office and by the time I arrived, the building was silent. All the other offices had emptied for the night. Gideon wanted me to see his favorite kitten.

  Peter was chewing on the end of a pencil, staring at a blank sheet of paper so hard I thought his forehead might bleed. I remembered feeling that way when I studied for examinations at Merrywood.

  Several books lay open on his desk. Peter glanced up. I gave him a little wave but didn’t want to interrupt his thinking, and so I closed the office door and followed the sweeping sound of a broom to the back room.

  Gideon made a big show of sweeping the dirt into a dustpan and emptying it in the trash can — he’s such a proud worker! — and then opened the closet. The kittens were mewing and tumbling over each other and nuzzling their mother’s belly.

  Gideon eased a kitten from its mother. My throat caught a little. The kitten was gray striped and the fur on its tiny forehead formed the letter M, just like Mozie. All four paws were as white as cotton. The kitten mewed and clung to my dress with its pointy claws.

  “Is he a boy or girl?” asked Gideon.

  I turned the kitten over. “Boy,” I said.

  “Just like Mozie,” said Gideon.

  At first, I paid no attention to the boots thumping up the stairs. My first thought was Mr. Wallace, but then my heart quickened as I realized the boots were too heavy and too numerous for one man.

  The boots stopped outside the office door. Peter glanced up, and our eyes met. He tipped his head, signaling me to stay back.

  “Hide,” I said, urging Gideon inside the closet. I followed, taking care not to bump the pails or brooms or the mother cat and her kittens.

  I pulled the closet door closed, leaving it cracked open. I grabbed a broom handle and gri
pped it tightly. If an intruder opened the closet door, the first — and last — thing he’d see was a broom handle aimed for his eye.

  A few seconds later, the office door crashed open. Three men rushed toward Peter. One man carried a thick board that he wielded like a club. “That’s him,” said the largest man. He was ruddy faced with thick dark hair and heavy brow and deep-set eyes and bulldog chin.

  The smallest man had sandy hair and a flat, dull face and smashed nose and a right ear that looked like a cauliflower. He reached into his shirt.

  A gun! I gasped and nearly cried out. My knees went weak.

  But he pulled out a folded newspaper. “We represent certain gentlemen who read your newspaper and don’t like what you say,” he said, waving the newspaper. “These gentlemen want you to stop causing trouble with your union talk and eight-hour-day talk and talk about equality. These gentlemen asked us to give you that message.”

  “Who paid you? Whoever they are, they’re using you,” said Peter. “Can’t you see that?”

  “I’m going to shut your mouth for you,” said the leader, drawing back his fist. “Nobody uses me.”

  Peter flowed into action so swiftly I could hardly believe what was happening. He ducked and plowed forward with his fists, driving them into the man’s stomach. The man grunted and doubled over.

  The small man came at Peter, swinging. Peter grabbed his arm and flung him over the desk, letting him crash on the other side.

  The third man was on Peter in a rush, wielding the length of wood like a club. Peter leaned back, and the wood swung in empty air over his head.