by Ann Parker
He was angry. Angrier than she could recall ever seeing him. That, more than anything told her: she’d caught him unawares. He had not believed she would really file for divorce, once he’d returned. Moreover, it was apparently dawning on him that not only had she stoked the engine and set this train in motion, it was picking up speed. Perhaps he was even starting to see his options for stopping it were slim to none, not even if he were to throw himself in front of it and allow the engine to grind him to shreds of bone and blood.
She responded, “That’s an empty question, Mark. You opened it. You know. It’s a summons for our divorce.”
The upheld papers shivered, a mute warning of the depth of his rage. She caught herself being glad he didn’t have a gun at that moment.
He began to circle the table toward her. Her instinct was to circle away, keeping the circumference of the table between them. However, doing so would place her farther from the door. So, instead, she stood her ground, one hand on the back of the chair, the other resting on her hip, only inches from the Smoot in her pocket. When she didn’t move, he finally halted, arm’s length from her. He shook the papers in her face, his blue eyes burning through her. “We made a deal in the Springs, Inez. You signed and agreed not to press forward with a divorce for a year.”
“You broke our deal,” she retorted. “We were to lead separate lives for that year. Those were your exact words. Our agreement was you would not meddle, not interfere. Well, you didn’t stick to your side of the bargain, rendering our agreement null and void. Your maneuverings did nothing but free me to do what I always intended to do at the end of the year—obtain a divorce.”
His expression tightened. For a minute, she was afraid he was going to hit her across the face with the papers. Instead he flung them violently onto the poker table. They skittered and slid across the top to fall off the other side. “You will not do this, Inez. I will not let you. I will bury you.”
“You bury me, then you bury yourself and you cast our son into an uncertain future. Is that really what you want to do?” she asked, hand on the engine throttle, easing it forward.
She watched as he visibly pulled himself together with a deep breath and tried to gather the reins of self-control. “Don’t. Just…don’t do this.” He changed tack, the Southern intonation creeping back in. “Darlin’, we need to talk.”
A sudden clutch of excited voices rose up from below accompanied by a clatter of footsteps ascending the stairs. It was warning enough so that they were able to step away from each other and turn their eyes to the open door.
Doc burst in first, followed closely by Bridgette. Doc said, “Mrs. Stannert! Mr. Stannert! She’s arrived at last and is as beautiful as the day is long!”
Inez pressed a hand against her bodice to slow the terrified hammering of her heart. “She? She who?”
“Why, Miss Hazel Jackson, that’s who!” Doc’s face was red with exertion as if he’d been the one giving birth. He took out a voluminous handkerchief and wiped his face and neck. “Arrived with a healthy set of lungs, as evidenced by a scream that brought the neighbors to the door asking who was being beaten.”
“Dr. Cramer!” huffed Bridgette. “That is not the least bit amusing!”
“No, Mrs. O’Malley, but it is what they said.” Doc leaned heavily on his cane. He looked done in, oblivious to the tension in the room and the Stannerts standing as frozen as statues in a tableau. Bridgette darted to Inez and said, “Dr. Cramer said we are to be the first outside of family to see her, but we mustn’t stay longer than just for a quick peek and give our well-wishes to the parents. I’ll gather up the basket I made earlier and take it with us. It has food enough for today and tomorrow, and I daresay they will need it I’m sure. I’m dying to hold the wee one, for just a minute, mind. I remember what it was like with the first, and Mrs. Jackson will not want that child apart from her for long.”
Doc gave them an exhausted wave. “Go, ladies, go.”
Inez said, “Doc, why don’t you sit. Have a brandy or two, on the house. You look like you could use it.”
“Come along, Mrs. Stannert!” Bridgette darted out and headed down the stairs, moving faster than Inez thought possible.
Inez was glad she still had her cloak and walking shoes on, as Bridgette grabbed the basket of edible offerings, her hat, and her coat almost before Inez had time to descend the stairs. Sol quizzed Inez with his eyes as the two women headed out but all he said was “Add my congratulations.”
As they hurried west down State Street, Bridgette said between huffs and puffs, “He said ‘not too long,’ well, that’s not clear at all, is it? If Mr. and Mrs. Jackson want us to stay a bit and help, that wouldn’t be ‘too long’ for them, then, would it? I was so excited to hear, a girl! Hazel! Such a beautiful name! I’m afraid when Dr. Cramer came in and told me I insisted we find you right away. Is the mister unwell? He looked under the weather.”
Inez glanced sharply at Bridgette and didn’t answer, but Bridgette brightened as the Jacksons’ cottage came into view. “Why look at all that!” she exclaimed.
Neighbors and others were indeed gathered along the front, standing back a bit from the walkway, murmuring amongst themselves.
Bridgette pushed her way through, saying, “Excuse me, we have permission from Doc Cramer, pardon, we have permission.” She gained the little porch quickly, with Inez just a half a pace behind. Bridgette rapped on the door, a hummingbird vibrating with nervous energy. Without waiting for someone to greet them, she twisted the knob and poked her head in. “Hellooooo,” she called with a lilt at the end of her salutation. “It’s Mrs. O’Malley and Mrs. Stannert here.”
A dark shadow loomed and Abe Jackson, looking weary, drawn, and older than his years pulled the door open and said, “C’mon in. Just for a bit, though. We’ve been through the wringer here, ’specially Angel.”
He accepted the basket from Bridgette and led them to the back. Mrs. Buford sat outside the bedroom, knitting. She glanced sharply at Inez and Bridgette—an imposing Janus at the gate. “I tol’ Doc that Mrs. Jackson needs her rest,” said Mrs. Buford under her breath, needles clacking away.
“Doctor Cramer said we could take a peek at the wee one,” whispered Bridgette back. “Just a quick peek.”
Mrs. Buford’s round face creased in a frown. “Well, I suppose if Doc said so.”
“Inez? Bridgette?” Angel’s voice, hoarse, exhausted, drifted out of the darkened room. “Please. Come.”
Bridgette didn’t need a further invitation. She hurried past Mrs. Buford who looked like she was about to offer a reprimand. Instead, she just looked at Inez, shook her head, and returned to her knitting. “Not too long, then,” she said. “That was a right difficult passage, and the good Lord knows, mother and child need some sleepin’ time.”
Inez ventured into the dim room. Bridgette was cooing over a low-lying cradle. “She’s as lovely as her mother, the wee one, look at her sleeping, I can’t see her face under all the blankets. Hazel, is it? Haaaazel.” Bridgette sounded like she was trying to coax the newborn awake.
Angel reached out an arm. The simple movement seemed to take all her strength. “Inez.”
Inez moved over to the bed and said, “Congratulations, Angel. I know you had a hard time of it,” she soothed, “but it’s over now. Now you have a beautiful baby girl.”
Inez heard Bridgette gasp. Inez looked up. Bridgette was holding a bundle and staring at Inez in bewilderment. “Her eyes!”
Inez felt her blood run cold. “What about her eyes?”
Bridgette seemed perplexed. “Just the biggest blue eyes I have seen on a child since, well, I can’t remember when. I was surprised, that’s all.” A little pale fist emerged from the blankets.
Angel gripped Inez’s arm. “Doc said, her eyes can get darker. Skin too.”
Inez moved to Bridgette’s side and took the baby gently, stroked the
little hand, which opened, only to close fiercely on her finger. Hazel blinked sleepily, still holding tight to the tip of Inez’s glove, and Inez saw that Hazel indeed had pale blue eyes, nothing like Angel’s brown or Abe’s near black. Her skin had none of Angel’s warm mahogany or Abel’s dark as coffee tones. Instead, Hazel had a few wisps of blonde hair, the color of summer hay, and white newborn-wrinkled skin. And eyes, lighter blue than the sky.
***
She will not know her father, I have seen it. Drina’s pronouncement from her “session” with Angel, just the previous week, haunted Inez all the way back to the Silver Queen.
It’s all stuff and nonsense, no need to have a case of the vapors, Inez told herself sternly. Anyone who knew anything of Angel and her previous life on State Street, before she married Abe, could reasonably “foresee” that Hazel’s father might be anyone, anyone at all, and not the man who will be raising her as his own. So, of course, the babe is very likely to never “know” who her real father is. It was a lucky guess, that’s all. Nothing more than a few vague words strung together, from which the gullible can weave the truth in retrospect.
When they walked into the saloon, Mark was at the near end, tending bar. He stopped when they entered and came toward them, wiping his hands on the bar rag. “Doc told me,” he said, “about the little one, Hazel. A surprise turn of the cards, but she’s got a crackerjack set of parents, so it’ll work out. I hear she is perfect in every regard, with a set of lungs that could get her a job as a fire bell.”
“Well now, we didn’t hear her cry,” said Bridgette, pulling her hatpin out, removing her small hat, and patting her gray hair distractedly. “She wanted to sleep and sleep she did. But she is a beauty, absolutely.”
Mark nodded, gaze fixed on Inez. “Loud scream, good lungs, already knows when a good rest-up is needed and not about to be convinced otherwise. I’m going to go out on a limb and wager she’ll grow into a lass of strong will and determination. A lucky girl, to be born to a mama and papa who will give her a good life, no matter what. Life sometimes works in strange ways, turning left when we expect it to turn right. Isn’t that so, Mrs. O’Malley?” Although he addressed Bridgette, Inez knew that last was directed at her.
“My thoughts exactly, Mr. Stannert.” Bridgette looked around the room, the occupied chairs and the crowded rail. “Heavens, look at how busy it is and so early in the week, not even a weekend! I’d better be getting back and put another batch of biscuits in the oven.”
“A word with you, Mrs. Stannert?” He’d had time to compose himself. The anger was gone, replaced by a careful politeness.
“Only one?” Her voice was no less polite.
“I apologize for my earlier behavior, Inez. I was taken by surprise,” he lowered his voice, “as I’m sure you knew I would be. We need to talk.”
“So, talk.” She started to strip off her gloves, heading toward the staircase.
He moved with her, careful to not bump into the backs of the men positioned along the rail. “Not here, not now. We need a neutral space. Somewhere where we can discuss this situation like the two civilized beings we are, or at least were, at one point. Somewhere I can be sure you won’t tear me to shreds afore I’ve had a chance to say my piece.”
Exactly what I thought he’d say.
“Very well,” she said coolly. “Our agreement, which, I will reiterate, you broke, stipulated we spend one evening a week together. Shall we say dinner? In a public restaurant? Where neither of us will be likely to cause a scene? I warn you, there is little chance you can say anything to change my mind at this point.”
She saw him eagerly grasp the straw she’d held out and could imagine him thinking: a little chance is better than none.
“The Tontine?” he offered. “Thursday? Or any place, any time you wish.”
She nodded. “Tontine, Thursday. What time? If we are both gone from the saloon, do you intend Sol and Bridgette to hold down the fort during our tête-à-tête?”
“Abe’ll be back by then,” said Mark. “He and Sol, they can handle things. It’s not like we’re skedaddling on them on a Friday or Saturday night. How about nine o’clock? I’ll make the reservation.”
So eager to please now.
“Very well.”
He smiled, obviously relieved.
Perhaps he thought I would turn my back and walk out.
He added, “That’ll give us both more time to calm down and consider the situation, don’t you agree?”
And gives you more time to prepare and for me to prepare as well.
She refrained from smiling and simply said, “Agreed, Mr. Stannert.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Tony pushed open the front door of Alexander’s Undertaking slowly, trying to keep the little bell from tinkling.
Yesterday, Sunday, had been no day of rest for her. When she had arrived late afternoon, Mr. Alexander had set her back to work on the main floor, saying, “Mrs. Alexander came back from church and is upstairs with one of her ‘sick headaches,’ so quiet as a mouse, if you please.” Tony understood quiet, and proceeded to creep about on silent feet, finishing up with dusting and polishing the caskets, then sweeping and cleaning the floorboards, which involved trying to dig out the grit between the planks with a bristle bush before taking a mop and a bucket of vinegar to them. The vinegar fumes stung her nose, reminding her of the chemicals Miss Carothers used to develop her photographic plates.
Just when Tony thought she might be done, Mr. Alexander was back, exclaiming in a whisper, “Excellent job!” and “Well done!” before handing her a tin of paste wax and asking her to also clean and polish the counter. “Be sure to get the front side,” he added, “since that’s what people see when they first walk in.”
Tony wasn’t about to grumble, since he was paying her extra for the extra hours, so she set her aching muscles to work on the counter, neatening out the papers and odd bits of stuff on the shelves below as she went. Before she left, Mr. Alexander told her he wanted her help in the lower level on the morrow. Tony didn’t know if she was more curious or nervous about that.
Monday afternoon, after fooling the doorbell, she tiptoed across the floor just in case the missus still had her headache. Mr. Alexander was nowhere to be seen, so she went to the back and started down the stairs to the basement. She was only two steps down, far enough to see the bottom level was lit up, when she heard Mr. Alexander talking, and not quietly either.
He said, “But the family wants him shipped as soon as possible! There’s no time.”
Another voice murmured.
Tony stopped and strained her ears.
Then Mr. Alexander said, “But, they aren’t even close! How do you expect me—?”
More murmuring.
“All right. I’ll make it work, somehow.” Mr. Alexander sounded defeated.
Tony waited, but didn’t hear any more.
It occurred to her it might not be good to be caught on the stairs eavesdropping. She retreated to the main level, wondering what to do when Mr. Alexander and whoever was down there came up. She finally went to the front door, opened it, shut it normally so the little bell rang, and then walked with a normal tread across the floor.
Mr. Alexander appeared from the back hallway so quickly Tony figured he must have been on his way up when she scooted out of there.
“Ah! You’re here,” he said. “Good. I need your help downstairs. I’m going to introduce you to some of the tools of the trade a little earlier than expected. Are you ready?” He turned and headed toward the rear of the building.
Tony followed, saying, “Is the missus feeling better?”
“What? Oh, her headaches. They usually last a couple of days. She resting now, sleeping. She has special medicine that helps her sleep through them.”
He sounded distracted, like he was thinking of something else. When they got do
wnstairs, they were alone. Tony looked around, trying to figure out where the other speaker had gone. She would have seen or heard if someone had come upstairs with Mr. Alexander. If they’d gone out the back door, she would’ve heard that squeaky thing shut. The large door that led to the ramp was still closed and barred. The door with the brass lock, though, now had a key sticking out of the keyhole.
Tony was going to ask Mr. Alexander about it, but he was busy with the drummer’s remains on the table. Only, Tony realized, it wasn’t the drummer at all. For one thing, the body was wearing fancy duds. In fact, those duds looked kinda familiar.
Mr. Alexander spoke without turning around. “Tony, will you help me remove the clothing here? We’ll be getting fresh ones to dress Mr. Winslow Percival Brown in for his final journey. He’ll be heading home across the sea, once the coroner sends us the final papers.”
Tony advanced, unable to look away.
It was him! Worthless Pisspot Brown!
And he had a hole the size of a dime where his heart was, and his fancy duds were soaked with blood from his collar to the top of his trousers. But his eyes, his face, something reminded her of Maman with those laces around her throat.
Tony felt her stomach turn over and rise. She dashed over to a bucket, which thankfully only held the dregs of the vinegar wash she’d used yesterday on the floor upstairs, and vomited.
“Oh dear. I’m sorry, Mr. Donatello. I should have warned you. Will you be able to help? I can do it myself. You could come back and clean the floors and tables tomorrow night.”
“No!” gasped Tony, face down in the bucket. She stood up and wiped her face on the sleeve of Ace’s jacket. “I, I’m okay. All the blood surprised me. What happened to him?”
To show she was fine, she went to Pisspot Brown’s feet and started removing his boots.
“The coroner and physician who examined him said he was shot. Well, that’s obvious, but there’s more.” Mr. Alexander looked at Tony, his eyes huge behind the glasses.
Tony steeled herself and moved to the other side of the table to look.
