Secrets on 26th Street

by Elizabeth McDavid Jones

  Did he suspect something? Could he tell she was a girl? Susan’s palms sweated.

  He scowled.

  Susan was sure he saw through her disguise. Maybe he would throw her out into the alley. Maybe he was on the verge of calling a policeman. She had the urge to run, but she held it at bay.

  “You’re Irish, aren’t you?”

  Relief washed over her. Is that all he was worried about? Susan was used to dealing with people’s prejudices about the Irish. “Yes, sir, I’m Irish, but I work hard.”

  “You’re small.”

  “I’m quick, sir.”

  “You think so? We’ll see about that. You’ve got one day to prove yourself, boy. Any tips you make today I keep.” He was scribbling on a scrap of paper. “Here’s the barber you’ll be working for. Do you know the address?”

  Susan nodded, but she swallowed hard. The address was on 36th Street, on the northern border of Chelsea. It was one of the toughest neighborhoods in the city. It was called Hell’s Kitchen.

  CHAPTER 5

  INSIDE HELL’S KITCHEN

  After the first few days of work at the barbershop, Susan’s apprehension left her. Hell’s Kitchen was not that much different from Chelsea—dirtier, perhaps, and the residents poorer and more desperate. Yet her customers were generally decent, honest people.

  Although shining shoes was hard work, Susan enjoyed proving that she could do it, and do it as well as the boys—even better. She made it a point to arrive at the barbershop early enough every day to get organized before the shop got busy. She would set up her stand with shine rags and brushes on one side and her polish bottle, paste wax, and suede brushes on the other—everything always organized perfectly so that her hands could fly from brush to polish to rags without her ever having to take her eyes from her work. She also learned that if she popped the shine rag across the shoe, making a sound like a firecracker, the customer thought she was really hustling and would give a bigger tip.

  After a couple of weeks, Mr. Delaney was actually praising the job she was doing. Susan figured that those large tips had a lot to do with his attitude. Some Saturdays she made as much as fifty cents.

  Susan saved her money and kept it hidden in the bottom drawer of her bureau. She was proud of how much she was saving, and she wished she could tell Mum and Bea what she was doing. She had decided from the start, though, to keep her work at the barbershop a secret. She knew Mum wouldn’t approve of her using deception to get the job, so she led Mum and Bea to believe she was working on her essay every afternoon at the library. She hadn’t really lied to them, but she hadn’t been totally honest either, and she felt guilty about it. She told herself, though, that she was doing it for the good of the family. When Lester Barrow threatened Mum again, Susan would be ready with money to help her. Then she would tell Mum the whole story, and if Mum wanted her to quit the job after that, she would.

  Though it was ten blocks to the barbershop, Susan refused to spend her money on carfare. She made a game of seeing how many different routes she could take to work. Sometimes she crossed to Eleventh Avenue and walked by the Borden train terminal to watch the refrigerator cars full of milk and ice cream being unloaded. Sometimes she would go one block farther to 12th so she could walk past the Chelsea Piers where Dad used to work. The piers were connected along the street front by a continuous bulkhead that had huge arched windows and a gabled roof at the entrance to every pier. Susan thought the piers were the fanciest buildings in Chelsea. If she went by way of 12th past the piers, she was careful to avoid Pier 67 between 28th and 29th. On that block was the office of Hudson River Shipping, where Mum worked.

  During her third week at the barbershop, Susan was walking up Ninth Avenue past the post office when she thought she saw Bea on the crowded post office steps talking to a fashionably dressed older woman. Susan ducked behind a pillar of the elevated train overpass and looked again. It was Bea. Susan had walked right past her, and Bea hadn’t recognized her in Russell’s clothes.

  What was Bea doing up here when she was supposed to be at work? The Nabisco factory was way down on 14th Street. And who was that society lady she was talking to? The woman looked like she belonged in Gramercy Park instead of on Chelsea’s crowded streets—she even had a little pug dog dressed in a sweater at her heels. What possible business could Bea have with such a wealthy-looking woman?

  While Susan was puzzling on this, another strange thing happened. Lester Barrow came out of the post office and greeted Bea as if he knew her. Susan couldn’t hear what they said, but Lester and Bea were both nodding and laughing, and Lester shook hands with the society lady. He even reached down and petted the little dog. They talked for a few minutes, then walked down the steps to the street together. Finally, Lester tipped his hat to the ladies, walked up the avenue, and disappeared into the crowd of pedestrians.

  Susan stood in the gloom of the underpass, scarcely able to believe what she had just seen. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought Lester and Bea were old friends. Susan had never seen Lester act so gracious to anyone. She could see why he would be courteous to the rich lady—but to Bea? Bea was a nobody, a woman who boarded with tenants in his own building. Why would Lester be so gracious to her? And, Susan wondered, why would Bea act so friendly to him, knowing the way he had threatened Mum?

  Susan puzzled on it the rest of the way to the barbershop, but she couldn’t figure it out. And she certainly couldn’t ask Bea about it, not without risking giving away her own secret. The incident nagged at Susan all afternoon. A voice in her head kept whispering that perhaps she didn’t really know Bea as well as she thought she did. After all, said the voice, Bea’s been with you scarcely more than a month. How can you know a person in such a short time? Susan closed her ears to the voice’s murmuring. She did know Bea. Bea was practically part of the family, the big sister Susan had never had, and Susan was sure there was a reasonable explanation for Bea’s behavior.

  Yet Susan was even more perplexed by Bea the following evening. Mum came home upset because her friend at work, Kathleen, had been fired. Mum said that Mr. Riley had accused Kathleen of not working hard enough, but Kathleen claimed Mr. Riley had found out she’d marched in a suffrage parade and had ordered her to condemn the suffrage movement. When she refused, he fired her.

  By the time Mum finished her story, Bea was red in the face, and her eyes had a fire in them that Susan had never seen. “What did you do about it?” Bea demanded of Mum.

  “What did I do?” Mum looked confounded. “There was nothing I could do. Riley never listens to any of the women around the office.”

  “Why didn’t you stick up for Kathleen? If every woman in the office had threatened to quit, your boss wouldn’t have dared sack her. His business would have come to a standstill.”

  Mum chuckled bitterly. “His business would have stood still for half an hour at most. That’s how long it would take him to replace us, and he knows it. If any of us had said a word, he would have fired us in a snap. And we need our jobs.”

  “So you stood by while Kathleen lost hers—because she believed in a cause.” Susan had never heard Bea speak so harshly.

  “A cause doesn’t pay the bills. Kathleen’s stand was very noble. And very foolish.”

  “You think suffrage is foolish, Mum?” Susan asked.

  Susan was shocked by the intensity of Mum’s reply. “Why are you twisting my words, Susan? I’m trying to say that there are reasons why some people can’t stand up for causes, even if they believe in them!” With that Mum jumped up from the table. “I’m going for a walk,” she said. She slammed the door behind her.

  Mum had not come home by the time Susan went to bed. Later, Susan was awakened by Bea and Mum arguing in the kitchen. Susan strained to listen as their words came through the darkness.

  “What you’re doing for us is splendid,” Bea was saying, “but you could do more.”

  Bea was talking about “us” again. Who in the name of heaven, Susan wonder
ed, is “us”?

  Mum said something that Susan couldn’t make out.

  Susan heard Bea again. “You can’t be paralyzed by fear. That’s what they want. I know how you feel—”

  “No, you don’t!” said Mum. “You come from—”

  The rest was drowned out by the rattle of a passing train.

  Then Susan heard Bea slam her bedroom door and mumble to herself in the bedroom. Susan knew she shouldn’t, but she put her ear to the wall to try to hear what Bea was saying. All she could make out were a few words. Something about a war and beating them at their own game.

  Anxiety began to creep up Susan’s spine. What did Bea want Mum to do?

  Suddenly Bea’s secret came crashing back into Susan’s brain. Maybe it wasn’t a romance Bea was hiding after all. Maybe it was something to do with the war. Susan’s heart pounded. Thoughts of spying and secret missions again raced through her head. Dangerous secret missions. Was Bea trying to involve Mum in something dangerous?

  No, Susan told herself fiercely, Bea wouldn’t do that. Maybe she didn’t know everything about Bea, but she knew her well enough to feel certain that Bea wouldn’t intentionally put Mum in harm’s way. Besides, the idea that Bea might be a spy—why, that was just Susan’s imagination running wild. Russell was right, Susan told herself. That sort of thing happened in books and faraway places, not in humdrum Chelsea.

  Susan tried her best to put it all out of her mind and go back to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, some noise—the elevated train rumbling by, an argument in the flat downstairs, a cat wailing from the alley—would jar her. Finally she felt herself drifting off.

  The next thing she knew, she jerked awake. She’d been dreaming of Dad, and his face was as vivid before her eyes as if he had tucked her into bed that night. The anguish of missing Dad came to her more keenly than it had in months. Her throat ached; a massive weight pressed on her chest.

  Susan slipped from the warmth of the covers and crawled off the bed, careful not to wake her sisters. She crept into the kitchen, slipped out into the hallway, and ran two flights up to the roof.

  Far below, the backyard light illuminated the gray wash pole and the clotheslines spreading like silvery spiderwebs across the yard. Incandescent lights from shopwindows, left on all night, glowed red, and the blinking lights from boats moved sleepily up and down the river. The baritone of a ship’s horn drifted across the water.

  Susan knew no lonelier sound in the world, and it pierced her with such a feeling of emptiness, she began to cry. Huge, rolling sobs poured from deep inside her. She covered her face.

  Then she felt a hand on her back. It was Bea. Bea took off her robe and put it around Susan’s shoulders. “A bit chilly to be out in your nightgown. What’s wrong, love?”

  Susan’s voice came out raspy. “I … I dreamed about Dad, and it made me wish for him so much.”

  “I know, love.” Bea pulled Susan close to her. “What was he like?”

  What was he like? Why, he was the best father a girl ever had. But how could Susan make Bea understand? “Well, he was big—he towered over Mum—but gentle. He didn’t have to be tough. His voice was enough to make you jump. And he was redheaded like me. Some people said he had an Irishman’s temper, but he never lost it—hardly ever—around us. He laughed all the time—” Then she couldn’t go on. The lump in her throat was too big.

  At first Bea didn’t speak. Then she said, “I should’ve liked such a father. I never knew my own dad. My grandfather was the man in my life. An important member of Parliament he was.” This she spoke with a regal, put-on voice. “But he was so stern, I was afraid to go near him.”

  “How old were you, Bea, when your grandfather died?” Susan asked softly.

  Bea stared out across the river. “He’s not dead. We had rather a nasty disagreement a few years ago and haven’t spoken since. I’ve no other family to speak of.”

  Bea sounded so dismal, Susan longed to comfort her, but she didn’t know how.

  “You’re fortunate,” Bea said, “to have fond memories of your dad. When I was little, I had to imagine mine. Oh, did I come up with some doozies. My favorite was the one where my dad and I had tea at Buckingham Palace. The queen herself poured, as I recall. Tell me your favorite memory.”

  “It’s hard to choose just one,” said Susan. “But I really liked going with Dad to Slocum’s for egg creams.” Susan told Bea how much fun she and Helen had had going with Dad to the candy store on 30th Street and sipping the rich, chocolaty drinks that were called egg creams. They’d each have two glasses, even Dad.

  “Do you ever go there anymore, you and Helen?”

  Susan shrugged. “Nah. Egg creams are a nickel each. Besides, half the fun was being there with Dad.”

  Bea nodded. “I know. That was the best thing about tea at the palace, too. At least your dad, though, was real.”

  “Yeah, but it hurts when I think of him, so I try not to.”

  “It hurts because you loved him so much. The best you can do with pain, love, is to make something good come out of it. Remember the kind of man your dad was, and try your best to live in a way that would make him proud.”

  Bea’s words turned a light on in Susan’s brain. For the first time she saw her memories of Dad as something to be treasured and enjoyed rather than avoided as too painful. She felt the heaviness in her chest begin to lift a little. As it did, a warm feeling toward Bea replaced the heaviness. Bea understood Susan in a way that no one else ever had. Susan thought she’d never had so special a friendship.

  For a while both Susan and Bea were silent. Finally Susan asked, “Do you still care for your grandfather, Bea?”

  “I suppose I do. Since my mother died, he’s all I have.”

  “Do you think he still cares for you?”

  “I … don’t know. I imagine he does. In his own way. Why do you ask?”

  “I was just thinking that if you and your grandfather cared for each other … well, you’re still family, aren’t you? No matter what’s passed between you. Couldn’t you just put it behind you?”

  Bea didn’t reply. The moonlight was too dim to read her face. Susan rushed on. “Maybe if you spoke to him first … if you wrote him or something.” She hesitated, not knowing what to say next.

  Susan was relieved when Bea spoke. “I don’t think it would do any good to write him. My grandfather’s a stubborn man.”

  “Wouldn’t it be worth a try? Maybe he’s forgotten what you disagreed about.”

  “Oh, no,” Bea said fiercely, “he hasn’t forgotten. I should have to buckle under to his way of thinking to make peace with him. And there’s no way I’ll do that.” Susan could feel Bea’s whole body shaking.

  Her reaction startled Susan. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Bea. I was just wondering … well, I was trying to help …”

  “I know you were, love.” Bea’s voice now was calm and warm. “What were you wondering?”

  “I was wondering what you disagreed about.”

  Bea stiffened just a little. “It’s hard to explain, Susan.” She paused. “Let’s simply say he wants me to be something that I can’t be.” Then she put her arm around Susan. “I say, it’s getting colder. We’d better get you back to bed.”

  CHAPTER 6

  THE SUFFRAGE PROBLEM

  The next afternoon the barbershop was busier than usual. It was a Friday, and men were getting spruced up for the weekend. Susan had been hustling from one customer to another, but for some reason no one was paying much in tips today.

  The customer she’d just finished with was a Tammany man, she was sure. Tammany men were always well dressed. This fellow had been wearing a stylish waistcoat, as well as leather boots that he wanted spit-shined. Susan took extra care, even using special polish that cost her a dime a bottle. When he reached in his pocket to get a coin for her tip, she saw he had a large, expensive watch chain, and she expected a tip of at least a nickel. But when she opened her hand to look at the coin, s
he saw he had given her only a penny, not even enough to cover the cost of the special polish she’d used! And half of that would go to Delaney! She couldn’t believe she’d wasted so much time on the man. All she could do was try to hustle even more to make up her loss.

  Still fuming over the man’s stinginess, Susan scurried toward a group of men in lounge suits talking in the back of the shop.

  “Shine, anyone?” she asked.

  “Aye, lad, right here, and be quick with you,” a man barked from the back of the group.

  The voice was familiar. Susan struggled to place it.

  “Hurry up, lad—I’m a busy man. Move aside, Bigelow, so the boy can get through.” He shoved at the fat man in front of him. When Bigelow moved, Susan saw too late the face of her customer. It was Lester Barrow!

  Susan knelt and set to work on Lester’s oxfords. She pulled the shine cloth furiously back and forth while her heart pounded. What if Lester recognized her? What would he do to a girl who made a fool of him by posing as his shoe-shine boy?

  Susan yanked her cap down almost over her eyes, but she needn’t have worried about it, for Lester was too involved in his conversation with the other men to notice her. She soon realized he wasn’t paying her any more attention than he was the flies on the wall, and she relaxed a little. She pricked up her ears, however, when she heard Bigelow mention “the suffrage problem.”

  “Those biddies are going to kill our system,” Bigelow was saying. “They’re already soapboxing on what they’re going to do when they get the vote, how they ain’t going to tolerate no corruption in their government. They’re going to clean up city hall, they say. Why, that’s us! We’re city hall, and we’ve got to do something before they sweep us right out of our livelihood!”

  “Bigelow’s right,” said a tall man with a hook nose. “We were so sure that the men of New York would never give women the vote, we’ve allowed these frantic females—I won’t call ’em ladies—to pick up more and more support every year. There are states west of the Mississippi, gentlemen, where women are already voting! It’s high time we admitted it could happen here—to our ruin. We must act now, decisively, to crush their movement before it’s too late!”