by Kim Taylor
“Well, hell. Hermione Montreal,” Mollie said. How often she and Annabelle had sat in Hermione’s burgundy-festooned apartment, sneezing at the dust, and giggling from the whiskeys she’d proffered them.
“Ah, my fame precedes me. Flower or future?”
“What happened to you?”
“The ides of progress. My building was ripped down on the approach to the bridge. Flower or your future?”
“I don’t got money for either.”
“The day is sweet. Indulge me.” She held out her gnarled hand. “I do not bite.”
When Mollie set her hand in Hermione’s, she felt the tick of the old woman’s pulse against her own. She saw the burgundy curtains flung to the street, the great wrecking ball smashing through the tenement, the set of tiny whiskey glasses shattered on the floor. Then there was again only her hand in the old woman’s.
“Pick a card.”
Mollie ran her fingers over the edges of the cards, felt the oil from so many hands. Then she pulled one from the arc.
“What is it?” Hermione asked.
“A wheel,” Mollie said.
“The Wheel of Fortune. All of life contained within its circle: sadness and joy, cruelty and kindness, the future and the past. It stops for no one and nothing, for it is life itself. It may roll backwards to that you no longer wish to see, or forward to that you are terrified to know. It is your choice which way the wheel rolls. Pick another. Just one more.”
Mollie crouched in front of Hermione.
“What is it?”
“Swords.”
“How many?”
“Five.”
“Ah, memory and fear. Five fears: betrayal, abandonment, ruin, joy, love. You hide behind walls to escape the fear that what hurt you once will hurt you again. But which is the fear that hurts you most?” Hermione coughed, deep and racking, and took a graying handkerchief from her waistband. Once the spasm subsided, she dabbed the edge of her lips.
“I ain’t scared of nothing.”
Hermione waved a hand in front of her eyes. “You don’t have a coin or two to give an old lady?”
“I got nothing. I told you.”
“Go now, and leave me to the sweet day. I’ll trust you to bring me something, when you’re of a mind to remember the entertainments of a mad old woman.”
HESTER STREET
FRIDAY. ANYTHING YOU WANTED for any price you could pay. Potatoes, apples, and tin cups were piled nearly as high as the sky. Chickens and geese hung fat in windows. The aroma of fresh baked bread was thick. Fish of every sort, eyes blank pink-and-black, gazed at passersby. Planks of wood were set atop ash barrels, and overturned crates served as makeshift shops. At one stall alone, a person could buy cigars, hard lemon candy, sour milk edging from the top of metal pails, and a pair of (only) twice-mended socks.
Above the crowd that bought and sold, women leaned from windows and called to friends on the street. The sun had returned to the Lower East Side, and though the snow had melted and puddled between the cobblestones, no one minded it, because the light held such promise. The thought of spring made people slightly giddy: They laughed and bargained and strolled and daydreamed.
Though Mollie wanted to sit in the sun that angled across the cement, she chose instead the darker shadows. A safe place from which to watch.
Mollie knew she’d hurt Annabelle. She decided—since Annabelle continued to harp about reading—to pinch a book for her. Something simple, with small words and big letters.
A bookseller by the name of Schmidt had set up shop directly in front of Mollie’s stoop. He puttered back and forth, arranging and rearranging, and muttering to himself. He was a squat man, in a cropped brown coat. His round glasses magnified his eyes, which made him seem both surprised and innocent at the same time.
“What time ya got?” Mollie asked him.
Schmidt pulled out a pocket watch and snapped open the case. He frowned, and then pushed his glasses up his nose, leaving a greasy thumbprint on the left lens. “Twenty past eleven. No—twenty-two past eleven.” He closed the watch.
“Got any kid’s books over there?”
“I might have. Let me see. . . .”
She’d let him point them out to her; she’d wait then for his back to be turned and she’d step up and take a book or two. Slide them into one of the long pockets of her coat. She thought she’d even smile at him as she departed.
A woman with kid gloves walked toward Schmidt’s stand. She wore a dove-gray skirt and overcoat, both of fine wool, and held a basket filled with bread and flowers, which she set on a stack of books.
Mollie took a breath. It was that woman who had stolen all the bathtubs and replaced them with useless classes. It was the rich bitch who had asked Mollie if she was a good thief and then smirked when Mollie said she was. Well, it was time to show the woman a thing or two.
The woman pulled a sheaf of papers from under the loaves. “May I leave flyers here?” she asked Schmidt. “New classes.” A small silk change purse swung from her wrist as she handed him the papers.
“Miss DuPre.” Schmidt bowed from his thick waist and peered around the thumbprint on his glasses. “I have the perfect book for you. The Faerie Queen. Spenser. I’ve saved it especially for you. There was a gentleman came by a moment ago wanting it, but I said, ‘No. This book is reserved.’”
Miss DuPre laughed. “You’ll make me poor with your books.”
“Oh, I think not, Miss DuPre. And I’ll set the flyers right here, up front for everyone to see.”
Mollie stood and stretched. Oh, how nice her boots were, the soles soft enough that she felt the rounded cobblestones beneath her. Nice and quiet, too.
She reached into a special pocket she’d sewn near her waist and grasped her little knife. It would only take one slice—for the knife was very, very sharp—and a quick dash into the clamor of the butcher shop nearby. The purse looked heavy; there might be enough to take Annabelle out for a real feast. Maybe mutton or pudding or sherry. And God knows how soon Annabelle’d be needing three or four meals a day. There might even be enough for a whole box of books. That would certainly shut Annabelle up. And there’d certainly be enough for a few months’ rent.
Mollie pulled the knife from her pocket, palming it so the blade wouldn’t glint.
Down the steps she walked. Two steps. Three steps. A little bootblack slammed his case into her legs and she almost tumbled backwards. Any other time she would have taken a hand to the side of his head. But not now—no need to call attention.
She didn’t pretend to look at the books—no one would think her a reader, anyway. She kept her eyes aimed toward the street, but that purse swung back and forth in the side of her vision. She passed the Do-Gooder—very close, close enough to smell the lemon verbena she wore. And oh, how the fabric draped so beautifully over the stupid rich woman’s bustle. Mollie paused long enough to read the title of the book she held: David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. The pages were bordered by the yellow and brown of rot and age.
Mollie wouldn’t pay a penny for something in such terrible condition. But here the woman was, opening her purse, so close to Mollie that the flutter it made in the air felt like fingers on her skin.
Still the woman did not notice her.
Mollie’s blessing was that most people ignored her. This made for some of the easiest pickpocketing one could imagine. Even if the mark caught up with a policeman, even if he’d looked her right in the eyes, even if she’d bumped into the woman she’d pinched something from—why, when the policeman asked for a description, there were hems and haws and “I don’t really remember”s. This allowed Mollie to wander merrily and innocently off from the scene, the goods she’d lifted already stashed in a pocket.
Mollie stood so close behind the woman, she could read those first lines:
Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.
She felt the heat of
the woman’s back, and noticed the sweat in the little pale tendrils of hair so carefully curled against her neck.
Schmidt gave a yellow-toothed smile. “And how is the settlement house, Miss DuPre?”
The woman straightened. “Very well. The baths are out, to make way for the children’s room. You should come to an evening lecture.”
A roar and bellow came from down the street. “Thief !”
Mollie turned her head toward the sausage stand, where a man in a black overcoat waved his hands and pointed down the street. A policeman’s whistle shrieked. Mollie stifled a smile. She knew the cop’s chase would be useless. A pickpocket could be a ghost when he wanted to be.
“It’s education that will stop that. This is exactly why my settlement house will teach morals.” Miss DuPre shook her head and returned to the books.
Mollie leaned in, then, turning the blade of her knife to the purse strings. It was a matter of half a second now.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Miss DuPre closed the book before her, and turned. She did not grab Mollie. She did not cry “thief.” She pinned Mollie with a stare—not of disbelief, or fear, or anger—of challenge. There it was, flinting in the gold flecks of her pale eyes. As if she dared her to take the purse and suffer the consequences.
“I’m not doing nothing,” Mollie said.
“You were about to take my purse.”
“Now why would I want to do that?”
“I thought you were a good thief.”
“Who said I was a thief? You saying I’m a thief? You know me? I ain’t seen you in my life. I’m looking for a book. There ain’t nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“Is the girl bothering you, miss?” Schmidt asked.
Emmeline DuPre flicked her hand, dismissing the bookseller as though he were nothing more than a bothersome gnat. Then she narrowed her eyes and murmured to Mollie, “Here. Take a flyer. There are better ways to do things than what you’re doing.”
Mollie glanced at it. Something about free lectures and classes.
“How’s your friend?” Miss DuPre asked.
“You just accused me of trying to steal from ya, now you want to know about my friend?”
“She wants to read.”
“And I want to be the queen of Egypt, but I’m busy doing other things. And so is she.”
The Do-Gooder opened her mouth as if to speak, then set her lips in a thin line. She raised her arm toward Mollie, allowing the silk purse to dangle and sway. “Take it.”
“What?”
“If you need the money, take the purse.”
“You’re nuts,” Mollie said.
“Not enough of a challenge, is it?”
“I got no idea why you’re talking to me.” Mollie spun on her heel. She took a step forward, but was stopped by Miss DuPre’s hand on her arm.
“I know exactly who you are.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I do.”
“I’m gonna call for the police if you don’t take your fucking hand off my arm.”
The woman let go. She stepped back and took a deep breath. When she looked at Mollie again, there was no fierceness in her gaze, no set to her jaw. “I apologize.”
“You oughtta.”
She turned again to the books. “What were you looking for?”
“What?”
“You said you were looking for a book.”
“Uh. Yeah. A kid’s book. So’s I can teach my friend.”
Emmeline DuPre found an old primer, bought it, and gave it to Mollie. “Let me give you a tip. Don’t watch your mark so long. I saw you coming a mile away.”
Mollie did not know what to say. This do-gooder was quick enough to catch Mollie’s game. She knew the definition of a mark and was sharp enough to keep herself from becoming one.
“Say thank you.”
“For what?”
“The book.”
“Thank you,” Mollie managed.
Emmeline nodded and walked away.
When Mollie opened the cover, a thin piece of paper fluttered out. It was an advertisement for the brand-new Cherry Street Settlement House, with a list of classes and lectures for the month of March 1883.
OF RED CURLS
THE FOUND HUGH AND Seamus loafing on the steps of Lefty Malone’s. “Keeping a watch for the Rum Runners,” Hugh said.
“Where’s everyone else?” she asked. By which she meant Tommy, as she knew that Mugs was at his job at the butcher.
“Dunno.” Hugh bounded down the steps, and grabbed an empty wooden box with a faded advertisement of big purple grapes and a woman in white holding a champagne flute. He flipped the box over and slid it so it bumped the rise.
“Don’t mess with the box,” Seamus said. “Lefty puts it there so’s patrons think they’re drinking quality liquors.”
“I just need it for a minute. I want to show Mollie something.” He sat on the lowest step, and pointed across the box. “Sit.” He rolled his derby off his head; inside was a deck of cards. “Three-card draw.”
“How do I know the deck ain’t stacked?”
“Shuffle them yourself.”
Mollie did. It was a new deck, and some of the cards stuck together. She bent the cards longways to loosen them.
Seamus picked up the Police Gazette from beside him and shook the pink pages open. “Careful there. Ya know how he don’t like his cards messed with.”
Mollie dealt. A pair of twos and a Jack. Too bad she didn’t have a cent on her.
Hugh smacked his lips and smiled. “You staying?”
“Sure.” She spread her cards before her.
“Not bad.” Hugh rearranged his cards, each time lifting his shoulder and dropping it.
“You got a twitch or something?”
“What? Little back trouble is all.” Up and down went the shoulder. Then he stood and snapped his arm. “All I need’s the queen of hearts, but I can’t seem to shake her out of my sleeve.” He rolled up his coat sleeve to show a metal contraption tied to his arm with leather straps. The queen of hearts was clamped to some spring-loaded thing. He shook his arm with more force, but the card wobbled and remained set in its mooring. “Aw, hell. She don’t want to move.” He sighed, then pulled the card free and kissed it. “You’re a hard woman.”
Mollie laughed. “How much you pay for that thing?”
“The fella said it worked like a dream. Even showed me. See, ya palm a queen before the deck’s shuffled, and switch it out for a bum card. Then—pow—out comes the match, but only if you need it.” Hugh wrangled with the spring on his arm, snapping and unsnapping it. “I got to get some oil. Hear how loud this is? I’d be dead before the card got in my hands. This thing’s trash. I’m gonna find that fella and give him a chunk of my mind.”
“Piece of my mind,” Mollie said.
“Piece of lead would be better,” Seamus added.
Hugh put his cards back in his hat and slapped it on his head. He put his hands on his broad hips, flipping back the yellow-and-black-checked coattails, and gazed down the street. “Would ya look at that? Looks like we got a Jewboy who’s very lost.”
A young boy walked quickly down the opposite sidewalk, his eyes scraping the ground. He wore a broad hat rimmed with fur, and two large red curls swayed and bounced next to his cheeks.
“Hey Jewgirl,” Hugh called. “How long’s it take your mother to fix your hair? Meeting your boyfriend for a little rump-diddle-dee?”
The boy kept moving forward, his shoulders tight.
“Why don’t ya answer me? Didn’t no one teach you any manners?” Hugh checked both directions, and after a delivery van rolled by, crossed the street and stood directly in the middle of the sidewalk.
The boy stopped. He kept his eyes down. He stepped right. Hugh blocked him. He stepped left, but Hugh cut off that escape, too. Hugh’s jacket blared in the sun. “Whatcha doing down here?”
“He’s gonna shit his pants, he’s so scared,�
�� Seamus said to Mollie.
“He’s just walking.”
Seamus handed the paper to her, then crossed the street.
The boy took a step backwards, bumping up against Seamus. Seamus pushed him forward with his chest, until he’d squeezed the kid between himself and Hugh.
“It’s polite to answer questions,” Seamus said. “So, whatcha doing down here?”
Hugh flipped the boy’s curls. “Such a pretty little girl.”
Then the boy took his chance, sliding from between them. He ran down the street, Seamus and Hugh on his heels.
Mollie chewed on her matchstick, chewed it until her teeth ground the wood to pulp. Her stomach growled, nagging her yet again for food. She spit out the hard end of the match and swallowed the rest. She hoped the boy was fast.
When they returned, Seamus dangled a red curl in front of Mollie. “Like a souvenir?”
“What the hell did you do that for?”
Seamus’s smile faltered. He looked at Hugh, then back at Mollie, his face puzzled. “What are you mad about?”
“What was the point? He wasn’t doing nothing; he was walking down the street.”
“He didn’t answer me,” Hugh said.
“Would you answer you?”
“What’s your problem?” Seamus asked. “It wasn’t like we beat him up or nothing. I cut a girly curl, is all. He should be thankful that’s all I did. Jesus, Mollie, it was just fun.”
“Where is he?” she asked.
“Long gone by now.”
“Won’t come back here, I bet,” Hugh said.
“Did ya see him shake and chatter, Hugh?”
Click click click went Hugh’s teeth.
“Well, did ya get his wallet, at least?” Mollie asked.
Seamus’s dark eyebrows met. He blinked a few times. “I didn’t think about it.”
“So, you harassed the kid for absolutely no goddamn reason.”
“I hate when you swear, Mollie.”
