Countless minutes or hours later, Lisa brushed back strands of hair from her face and wiped her eyes with the hem of her dress. She stumbled toward the door, aware it was senseless to stay here and dwell on her misfortune. For once, her natural resiliency refused to comfort. Maybe some day she'd recover from William's iniquity, but on this dreary afternoon, nothing but unyielding hopelessness stretched ahead of her.
Chapter Twenty-four
Lisa tucked a check into her handbag as she left the Times Building and stepped onto Fourth Avenue in Pittsburgh, relieved that the editor of the Times had paid her $10 for five travel articles with the promise of more money for future essays. Encouraged by her success and convinced of her ability, she considered writing short stories. Possibly The Ladies Home Journal would be interested, and the extra money would definitely come in handy for her new house. Something to think about, at any rate.
She hurried along the crowded street as the heavy, acrid air from the mills settled like a weight in her throat, making her cough. It was nearing midday, yet the street lights glimmered in the dusky air. The sun was a dull yellow blob in the sky, trying its best to penetrate the dark, sooty veil that blanketed the city. A sudden cold gust tugged at her skirt and whipped her black voluminous cape about her, and she pressed her arms closer to her body for warmth, her head lowered against the wind.
As she made her way along the busy avenue, Lisa pondered an idea brewing in her mind. It was but a short walk to William's office in the Conestoga Building on Wood Street. Why not go to his office and discover his financial situation--in a roundabout way, of course. And if his employees resented his questions, too bad. She had a right to know. He'd sold her jewelry, her mother's house, damn him!
Lisa approached the many-storied office building, its once golden brown brick now a dark, dirty brown, grimy with industrial dirt. She entered the interior and proceeded to the elevator, then heard footsteps behind her as she waited for the elevator to return to the ground floor. With a glance in that direction, she saw three black-suited businessmen who stood a few steps away, speaking in low tones.
". . . bad investments," one of them was saying.
Lisa clenched her gloved hands at her sides, then relaxed her fingers, not wanting them to see her agitation. Could they possibly be talking about . . .?
"Most unwise," agreed another gentleman. "I understand that Allegheny National Bank granted him a rather substantial loan."
"That's my understanding, too," a third man added. "It looks as if he's made some unsound decisions. He surely hasn't been a prudent stockbroker. Let's hope he can recover his losses with that shipping company in San Francisco. Still, he'd better choose his stocks more carefully in the future." A pause. "The poor man seemed quite despondent when I last spoke with him. One hates to think . . ."
"Indeed."
Lisa bit her lower lip. Could they be talking about William? Who else?
A bell sound, the elevator door opening. Greeting them, the operator asked the assembled group for their desired floors. With smiles and friendly nods, the three men motioned Lisa to proceed them.
"No, thank you," she said. "I've changed my mind." She'd learned all she needed to know.
* * *
Anton Hrajack returned home from work, dragging his feet up the stairs to his and Emma's one-room apartment. The spicy aroma of vegetable stew welcomed him as he entered the room and threw off his heavy jacket. Sighing with weariness after his twelve-hour turn, he dropped his metal lunch bucket on the kitchen table.
Surprised at Emma's absence, he wondered where she was. A dangling light fixture barely penetrated the afternoon darkness on this cold, cheerless day in late autumn. He rubbed his hands together and moved closer to the kerosene heater, grateful for its warmth.
Emma rushed into the room a few minutes later, shivering with the cold. "I was helping Julka Slejak with her baby," she explained as she went to his open arms. "How was it at the mill today?"
"Ach! That long walk to Rankin is no casual stroll, but I've learned to take what I can get at the blast furnace and be thankful. At least I have a job, which is more than you can say for the skilled union men. And I've heard they're about to vote to end the strike . . . ."
"The new workers," Emma said contemptuously, "are they performing any better?"
Anton scoffed. "They'll never learn! You have to lead them by the hand, tell them everything to do. Accidents all the time! They make work dangerous for everyone."
"Accidents?" Emma asked in a shaky voice. "Dangerous?" She shuddered, her throat suddenly dry.
Anton laughed. "Mila moja, don't worry about me. Don't you know I'm immortal?"
* * *
"I can't believe the stinkin' strike is over! What did it accomplish? Nothing!" Mike Flanagan shook his head as the Amalgamated men trudged out of the Munhall skating rink after voting to end the strike.
"We're worse off than before," Alan Bates blurted. "We never had to worry where our next meal was coming from. Hell! We were the best workers in the whole damned mill. Best paid, too. Now look at us. Jesus Christ!"
The union men plodded home, afraid to look at each other, mouths set in bitter lines. What would happen to the union now?
Owen walked home with Mike Flanagan, their footsteps crunching over the drifts of sooty snow. A fierce arctic wind blasted their faces and made their eyes water.
Flanagan rammed his gloved hands into the pockets of his mackinaw, throwing Owen a worried look. "Did you hear about Joe O'Roark?"
"No, what about him?" Owen asked with a dawning uneasiness.
Flanagan's mouth worked. "Committed suicide."
"Holy Jesus!"
"Couldn't take the strain anymore," Mike continued as he kicked a loose tree branch out of the way. "Out of work all these months, and now his wife's expecting their second child." Mike shook his head and shuddered.
Owen drew a deep breath, huddling inside his jacket. "Let's take up a collection for his widow. We can all spare something, I'm sure."
"My thoughts exactly. Margaret will need all the help she can get."
They continued in silence for a while, heads bent against the full force of the wind. Fresh snowflakes, tiny and dry, blew down from a leaden sky, swirling around in the erratic wind. Walking past the mill, Owen coughed and brushed the steel dust from his jacket. Tight-lipped, he observed the multitude of stores along Eighth Avenue, most of them long since boarded up and deserted. Few people in Homestead had the money to buy anything except the necessities. How had it come to this!
"Are you going to report for work at the mill," Mike asked, "now that we've ended the strike?"
"Why give the superintendent the satisfaction of turning us away? You know he won't hire us back."
"Yeah, that's what I heard, but it's worth a try." Mike shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows? Maybe they'll be glad to have skilled workers again."
"Don't bet your life on it." Owen snorted. "Haven't Frick and Carnegie made it plain they want nothing to do with the Amalgamated?"
"Just the same, I think I'll report back for work."
Owen clapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck, Mike, and I hope I'm wrong."
The following day, Mike Flanagan stepped into the office of the Homestead mill. Charles M. Schwab, the new superintendent, checked Mike's name from a list on his desk. A long line waited behind him, anxious men desperate for jobs. Henry Clay Frick sat in the background, watching the proceedings with a quiet satisfaction.
"Sorry, we're not hiring any Amalgamated workers," Schwab said, looking up from the list. "None of the mills are."
"Go to hell!" Mike spun away and stalked out of the room. He headed for O'Brien's saloon--the steelworkers' consolation--grateful the saloons of Homestead had opened again. After a brisk walk, he reached the establishment, opening and slamming the door behind him. He stared at all the other unemployed workers, their faces lined with misery.
"Blacklisted at all the mills!" He resisted the temptation to kick a stool
out of the way. "Where the hell can we get a job?"
"Yeah," Patrick Reilly answered, "and now Thanksgiving's coming. You tell me what we have to be thankful for!"
* * *
On a cold, gray day in late November, Lisa crossed the Sixth Avenue Bridge that led from Allegheny into Pittsburgh. Happiness and sheer good fortune brought a spring to her step. She’d found a furnished home in this small city just north of Pittsburgh, and with the money she’d received for her travel articles, she’d already paid the first month’s rent. Eager to return to Shadyside, she hurried along the bridge that spanned the Allegheny River, finally reaching Pittsburgh on the other side.
The Shadyside trolley clanged in the distance, its wires overhead spewing electrical sparks as the car rumbled on its tracks. As she rushed to get the car, all her thoughts centered on her new home. How different it would be to live in this house, compared to her elegant mansion on Ellsworth Avenue. Located on a quiet street in the old city of Allegheny, it was one of similar houses, where she could live in respectable anonymity.
Lifting her skirt, she climbed aboard the trolley, a smile on her face. Just wait until she told Owen about her house.
* * *
“Wait ‘til you see the house I rented for us.” Lisa had met Owen downtown, close to Trinity Cathedral and far from William’s office. They walked along the snowy streets together, her hand in the crook of his arm. She shivered in a strong northerly wind and drew her cape closer about her. How she wished they were somewhere alone, where they could hug and kiss. But she had to be grateful for every minute she spent with him.
He frowned. “The rent. How will you pay that?”
“Darling, I wrote several travel articles for the newspaper. Was paid already.”
His frown deepened. “Very well, sweetheart, for now. But someday, I’m going to have my old job back.” He looked down at her, his expression gentling. “I won’t have the woman I love paying rent out of her own money.” He squeezed her gloved hand. “Tell me about the house.”
Other pedestrians passed them on the busy street, some laden with packages, all bundled up against the cold. Despite her assurance that William was at his office now, far from them, she looked around from time to time, fearful she might see him.
“The house, yes. It’s not Shadyside, believe me, but it will do just fine. Heavens, we don’t even have a front yard. Our front door leads right onto the sidewalk. But I like it, just the same, and I’m sure you will, too. It’s a dear little house, truly. Besides us, only the housekeeper and Elizabeth and Lawrence will know I’ve moved to Allegheny.”
He nodded. “Sounds fine with me. What will you tell your friends and neighbors about moving? Are you going to tell them about that husband of yours?”
“Heavens, no! I’ve already told them I’m going to visit an aunt in Philadelphia.” She shook her head vigorously. “I don’t like this lying, this deceit. If I had my way, I’d be free of William, free to marry you, live with you as your wife.” Her voice caught, and she swallowed. “ “But life doesn’t always give us what we want, does it?”
He remained quiet for a moment, as if deep in thought. “What if someone from Shadyside sees you? You have considered that, haven’t you?”
“Who’ll see me?” she asked in a matter-of-fact way. “No one from Shadyside goes to Allegheny. I probably won’t go out too much. I’ll be busy enough getting settled and writing more articles for the newspaper. One small problem–I shall have to find a housekeeper, eventually. Mrs. Gilmore will stay at the Shadyside house to manage the servants. I’ve instructed her to notify me when he returns, and in the meantime, tell him I’m staying with Elizabeth.” She sighed as she thought about the enormity of her problem. “I’ll face William when he returns and tell him I no longer consider myself his wife. I never have been, not a real wife. But he’ll be away for weeks.” How she dreaded his return. She gazed up at Owen, projecting all her love and longing in her expression. “Ah, darling, if I had met you first . . .”
He smiled down at her. “Same here, but we can’t dwell on what might have been.”
She sighed and looked up at the dark, dreary sky, mentally bracing herself for William’s return and for his anger.
Random thoughts ran through her head as she pondered all that had happened this past year. It seemed as if she’d lived more than one lifetime in the last few months. She wondered what more could possibly happen.
Chapter Twenty-five
At her Ellsworth Avenue mansion, Lisa took a long look at herself in the entrance hall mirror. I never wanted things to be like this, she fretted with a downward curve of her mouth. God help me, I only wanted to love and be loved. She shook her head, as if to deny the reality of her situation. What a deceitful liar she'd become.
And yet . . . and yet . . . she recalled all that had happened this past year--meeting Owen, falling in love with him, and knowing how much he loved her. How he had enriched her life, Lisa realized with an intense awareness of her blessings. She wouldn't have changed anything for the world, except for marrying William. Deep regret weighed heavily on her, all but crushing her when she considered the enormity of her mistake. If she could live her life over . . .
Aware that brooding never accomplished anything, Lisa spun away from the mirror. Far better to do something useful, such as putting her cedar chest in order. She mounted the stairs, blowing on her hands for warmth. Despite the chill in the air, bright shafts of sunlight beamed through the stained glass window at the landing, giving a false impression of spring.
"Will spring ever come?" Lisa murmured, stepping into the warming light at the window.
Resolved to get the job over with, she quickened her pace as she approached the spare bedroom. She opened the door and stepped inside the room, frowning at its musty smell, its air of abandonment, as if it had stood empty for centuries.
"Whew!" Wrinkling her nose, Lisa hurried to open a window. A sudden, cold draft of air blew into the room, whipping curtains away from the wall and flapping the sheets that covered the furniture. Dust motes flew frantically about in the swift onrush of air, making her sneeze. She really should have the maids clean this room, she reminded herself again.
The wedding gifts lay on the floor as she'd left them, a blatant reminder of William's perfidy. Hitching her woolen dress up, she knelt down on the floor to carefully return the items to the chest, setting the delicate china pieces between layers of linen. That done, Lisa lowered the lid and let it fall with a soft thud. She braced herself against the chest to rise, resting her other hand on the floor for support. Something hard pressed against her hand, a small object lying under the fringe of the rug. With only mild curiosity, she drew the rug back. She gasped. Her sapphire ring!
"Well, what do you know!" She held the ring between her thumb and forefinger as she admired how it caught the brilliant sunlight. How had William missed it? she wondered, turning the ring this way and that. Now, she remembered--the spring on the box had been faulty from the first. The ring could easily have fallen to the floor and escaped his notice, especially if he'd been in a hurry. Smiling in smug satisfaction, she pictured the jeweler as he opened the box, only to find it empty. Ha! If she could have seen William's face then.
This will fetch a pretty penny, she reckoned, rising from the floor. First chance, she'd take it to the jewelry store, for she knew the manager would give her a good price for it; he'd been quite generous in the past.
Relief flooded her, coupled with an intuition that things would surely get better. They just had to. The money from the ring will go toward Owen's college education, Lisa vowed with an ever-increasing determination. She'd make sure he received his engineering degree. Clasping the gem in her hand, she closed the window and left the room.
* * *
Emma set the breakfast dishes on the table, glancing out the window at the gathering dawn, anxious for Anton's return from the night shift at the mill. Bacon sizzled in the frying pan, and cinnamon bread baked in the oven,
mingling with the aroma of fresh coffee. How good it was to eat well again, she thought as she opened a drawer to grab a couple of forks. Shoving the drawer shut with her hip, she reflected that Anton had gotten this mill job none too soon, since she had two to eat for now. After all this time, she was finally with child. Just wait until I tell Anton, she mused as she opened the oven door to check on the bread.
Emma peered out the window again, aware he should have arrived home by now. Why was he running so late today? she agonized, more worried by the minute. The darkness of a long winter's night had lifted, a pale glow lighting the east. Despite Homestead's usual murkiness now that the mill was operating again, she could see out the window more clearly than only a few minutes ago. Still, no Anton.
Tiny snowflakes swirled about in a stiff wind, beating against the windowpane. Emma lifted the kerosene heater closer to the table, knowing Anton would be cold after his long walk from Rankin. Poor man! How hard he worked for such a mere pittance, yet he never complained.
She set the coffee cups on the table, reflecting on last night's dream, recalling it as if it had actually happened. In her dream, she found herself on a ship, returning to Slovakia. She’d felt the rise and fall of the ship as it crested the waves, heard the laughter of the other passengers as she rode steerage. But where was Anton? Emma had looked frantically about and had gone in search of him, her heart thudding with panic . . . and woke up in a cold sweat.
Now, in the stark light of day, she gripped a hard-backed chair, paralyzed with fear.
Heavy footsteps pounded up the outside stairs. Emil burst into the room.
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