Blessed Assurance

by Lyn Cote

  Jessie’s resentment flamed up again. Only Hiram Huff would return a pencil to a crippled Union army veteran.

  “I’ll do that, ma’am. Tell your husband I stand behind my pencils.” He gave her a new one.

  Jessie thought fast. “Oh! Miss Greenleigh asked me to pick up two red pencils.” She handed him a nickel. He tossed the pencils into her basket.

  With parting nods to him, they walked away side by side.

  “Thank you, dear,” her mother murmured.

  Jessie nodded. They both knew that Jessie had bought the red pencils out of kindness since Hiram Huff made his wife account for each penny. The breeze changed and they lowered their handkerchiefs.

  “You look tired, Jessie. Have you been up late again nursing someone?”

  After Susan’s lecture on the same subject, Jessie changed topics. “I had an unexpected visitor this morning at dawn.”

  “At dawn? Who was it?”

  “A stranger. He actually tried to make me believe some train conductor recommended my boardinghouse.”

  “Why would he choose your house if someone hadn’t recommended you?”

  “Just my luck.” Jessie gave a half-smile. He continued to intrigue her. Why? Maybe it was merely the fact that the war had taken such a dreadful toll on the population of young men that no man under the age of forty had sat at her table for over five years. Maybe that made him keep popping into mind.

  “But…please be careful.”

  “After meeting Miss Wright, I doubt he’ll be back.” Jessie firmly put the man out of her mind.

  “How is Miss Wright, the poor woman?”

  “Poor woman with a razor-sharp tongue. She sliced that stranger up like the bacon for breakfast.”

  Her mother shook her head. “Margaret loved Miss Wright so. You had the sweetest mother-in-law I’ve ever known.”

  “Yes, I did.” Jessie looked away. Losing Margaret in the final months of the war less than a year after Will had died still had the power to hurt her.

  How often she still yearned to lean her head on Margaret’s soft bosom and listen to her voice soothe every problem with a prayer. Jessie took a deep breath and felt her stays press against her ribs.

  Then she heard it, the idle clang of a fire bell. With misgiving, she watched the shiny red, black, and brass fire wagon coming toward them. Her stepfather, in his highly starched blue fire-captain’s uniform, hopped down from it; grim satisfaction on his square face.

  “Hiram, I…” Her mother pressed her hand to her heart. “You surprised me.”

  “I knew you’d be shopping about now and I wanted to have a word with your headstrong daughter.”

  “I don’t need that word,” Jessie muttered.

  “Please.” Her mother touched Jessie’s sleeve.

  “We already know, Esther, that your daughter doesn’t have a teachable spirit.”

  “What is it you want to teach me, stepfather?” Jessie forced herself to speak politely for her mother’s sake. Her mother suffered over any confrontation, however mild.

  “A fellow fire captain of mine saw you leaving that shantytown at an ungodly hour this morning—again.”

  “A sick baby needed me.” Jessie lifted her chin.

  “Your actions reflect on us. No decent woman would go there at any time, but certainly not at night.”

  “The baby might have died—”

  “This odd behavior will stop now. Esther, I’ll be home late this evening.” He tipped his hat and climbed back on the wagon.

  His condemnation set a wildfire inside Jessie. She tried to call up some of the phrases that Margaret had taught her about loving those who persecute us in vain. In a low voice, Jessie said, “Mother, I am doing the work God has given me. No one will turn me from my purpose.”

  Painful crosscurrents of love and shame showed on her mother’s face. “Daughter, will you come to Field & Leiter’s with me?” Her mother blinked back tears.

  Jessie was touched. Calling her “daughter” sounded like a commonplace. But in their unspoken code, using this term was an endearment that had slipped by her stepfather. Even now when Jessie no longer lived under her stepfather’s roof, these brief daily shopping trips were the only way they saw each other regularly. “No, but I’ll walk you there.”

  Jessie enjoyed strolling beside her mother through the streets crowded with shoppers. Then at the corner of Washington and State stood the five-story “marble palace” built by Potter Palmer. Its gala grand opening night had taken place two years ago. If Will had survived the war, he would have drawn her arm through his and escorted her like his princess through the aisles of exotic rugs, Balmoral petticoats, silks, and more. Instead, she’d only read about it in the Trib.

  Her mother coaxed, “Won’t you please come in this time. It’s so cheery inside.”

  “There’s no reason for me to look at what I can’t afford.” At her mother’s crestfallen expression, Jessie said, “Linc and I are making ends meet, but I have to save for his future. I want Will’s son to go as far in life as he is able.”

  “You’re only in your twenties. I want you to enjoy life more while you can.”

  My joy died with Will. He’ll never walk the marble floors of Palmer’s Palace. “Mother, I’m going to my first baseball game today. What could be more fun than that?” Jessie was rewarded with a genuine smile from her mother.

  “Then I won’t keep you. I’m sure you have much to do, so you can make the game in time.” With a wave, her mother walked through the door held open by a boy in a royal blue uniform with bright brass buttons. Stylishly dressed and still handsome, her mother looked exactly right walking into the elegant store.

  Will had always said that Hiram Huff’s only redeeming quality was that he always demanded his wife wear the very best. Which only proved what Will had believed was right; happiness didn’t lay in finery. I have Linc, a home, and Susan—God’s given me all I need.

  Jessie hurried to the butcher. Out of the corner of her eye, the way a slender man in a dark suit moved, a kind of cocky nonchalance, caught her eye. It was Mr. Smith. That indefinable feeling zigzagged through her again. She pushed it away. She’d never see Smith’s face at her door again. And woe to him if she did.

  Lee wearied of roaming the unusual wooden sidewalks of downtown Chicago. In the main shopping district around State and Randolph, the streets and sidewalks were flush with each other. But a few blocks away, though the street and first floor of a business were even, often the entrance was by means of a staircase to the second floor. Why?

  As he walked, several windows with signs saying “Help Wanted” had beckoned him, but crosscurrents inside him had kept him walking by. What did he really want to do while he set everything up? He’d planned to start by getting a room at Jessie’s. But he’d failed at that. How could he get close to Jessie Wagstaff?

  His stomach rumbled. Just ahead of him on the south side of the river was a tavern, “The Workman’s Rest.” Its sign also proclaimed “Free lunch with nickel beer.” His mouth watered at the thought of a long draught of ale. But as he approached the double swinging doors, he paused. He shouldn’t go in.

  Two burly men crowded one on each side of Lee and carried him along with them into the tavern. One of them called out, “Pearl, brought you a new customer! He’s wearing a suit!”

  Lee halted, shocked at finding himself in the last place he wanted to be.

  “He’s welcome!” The woman behind the bar called back without taking her eyes from the two tankards of ale she was filling at the tap. She thumped them down on the bar, then wiped her fingers on her white apron. “Welcome to the Workman’s Rest, stranger. I’m Pearl Flesher. Put her there.” The woman thrust out her hand.

  She was tall, blond, good-looking and thirtyish. Lee accepted her hand. “A pleasure, ma’am.”

  “A man with manners. What can I do for you, mister?”

  Lee was stumped. He knew he was expected to say, “A beer, Pearl” but he couldn’t.

/>   “He wants a beer just like we do, Pearl,” the workmen on both sides of him declared. “Come on, we can’t waste our short lunchtime.”

  Lee cleared his dry throat. “Really, I would prefer a barley water.” The words brought a stunned silence to the two workmen.

  “Barley water!” one exploded.

  “Yes, my stomach, you see.” Neck on fire, Lee felt all eyes turned on him.

  One of the men started to speak, but Pearl cut him off, “If he wants barley water, it’ll be barley water. You jugheads could digest nails.”

  The men around him laughed and Lee felt intense relief. Soon he was having a congenial exchange with them as he sipped his barley water and enjoyed his thick sandwich of sliced sausage on fresh bread.

  An older man farther down the bar pointed his pipe in Lee’s direction. “You sound like you come from out East. What do you think of our Chicago?”

  “It is truly a modern city—policemen, fire hydrants, gaslights on the street corners.” Lee bowed with mock formality. “But why do some sidewalks here go up and down like hills?”

  The old man took a draw on his pipe. “Chicago was built on a swamp. They couldn’t do nothing about the land being so low and muddy so they shaved off a hill nearby and used it to fill up the main part of town—to make it level.”

  Lee paused with his glass to his lips. “They filled it in? With the buildings already there?”

  “Pullman did that,” Pearl broke in while she refilled a glass. “I seen it when I was a girl. He had a thousand men put large wooden screw lifts under the foundations.”

  The old man caught Lee’s eye. “Like the Hotel Tremont. That Pullman fella, he blew a whistle and they’d all give one turn. Another whistle, another turn.”

  “You’re kidding me,” Lee said with a grin.

  “No, he did it. With people staying in the hotel the whole time,” Pearl cut in, “just like nothing was happening.”

  Lee shook his head. Though a row of small tables lined the wall, most of the men mingled around the bar. The conversation around him turned back to baseball and some wagering over the White Stockings’ chances. Lee tried to come up with a way to get close to Jessie. In the homey-feeling tavern, a few posters announcing today’s ball game were pinned on the back wall.

  Lee stared at the posters and suddenly he pictured Jessie talking about her boy’s interest in baseball. She’d actually smiled. The son is the key to the mother. And baseball is the key to the boy. Lee stood up straighter. “Where’s the baseball field from here, Pearl?”

  “Down by the lake, near the river,” she answered. “You can’t miss it.”

  The hour passed and the lunch crowd trickled out on their way to nearby factories. Finally, Lee handed Pearl a dime. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks, mister. Come in for another barley water any time.”

  Lee tipped his hat and walked out, whistling. At last, he knew what to do.

  That afternoon at Drexel Park, the breeze off Lake Michigan was brisk. From a block away, Lee sized up the park’s wide open view of spring’s early green lawn and the lake’s white-capped blue waves, dazzling in the sun. Optimism had returned. He looked for the boy.

  The first pitch of the baseball game had already taken place when he reached the field. No Linc. But school hours were still on; he saw only a few scruffy-looking truants among the men. While he waited for Linc to arrive, he leaned back against a sturdy elm and surveyed the Chicago White Stockings in their striking white cotton stockings and spanking white knickers, at their first exhibition game.

  The crack of the bat uncorked a rush of undiluted nostalgia. How many impromptu baseball games had he played in the army? Days of waiting between battles and campaigns…

  A wagon on the nearby street creaked loudly over a bump. A picture flashed from Lee’s memory. A rough horse-drawn ambulance bumping over a rutted road and a steady trickle of scarlet blood spilling from inside the wagon bed onto the dust.

  He shuttered his mind against the images. I am alive and in Chicago. I have eight dollars in my pocket. It won’t last very long, but I’ll see to that soon.

  Lee turned back to the game. The batter had reached first base. Inning followed inning. At last, near the front of a wave of arriving schoolboys, Lee recognized Linc’s blond head. Lee lifted his hat and motioned to Linc. The lad left the other boys behind, heading to him, unexpectedly warming Lee’s heart.

  “Mr. Smith,” Linc exclaimed with a wide smile.

  “Linc.” Lee offered his hand and the two shared one quick, handshake. “It’s the fourth inning.”

  Linc turned to watch. “I saw that hitter last year at a game. He always gets a run.”

  “The White Stockings need it. They’re down by two.” Standing beside Linc, Lee awaited the pitch, both their attention riveted on the man at bat. It came. The bat caught the ball with a satisfying crack. Lee joined the rising crescendo of shrill enthusiastic voices and bellows urging the runner to first base. The player made it with only a second to spare. A cheer surged through the onlookers. Lee found himself grinning.

  In quick succession, two more White Stockings made it off the plate. With three men on base, the contagious excitement lifted Lee’s spirits. Then the White Stockings’ batter struck out. As though uttered by one voice, a moan went through the crowd.

  Disgusted, Linc threw his hat to the ground. “Three men on base. How could he let that pitcher strike him out?” With a rueful nod, Lee retrieved the hat and replaced it on Linc’s head.

  With his hand on Linc’s shoulder, Lee watched the game. In swift order, the White Stockings’ pitcher struck out the first two batters, but the third opponent proved to be a challenge. As the pitcher took his time reassessing the batter, Lee idly scanned the crowd and caught sight of Jessie Wagstaff approaching. Why had she come?

  A stiff black bonnet, completely without feather or ornament, covered her warm brown hair. Its black brim paled her rosy complexion. After six years, why did she still dress in deep mourning, totally in black with not even a touch of gray? Mourning clothes and her stiffly upright posture made her look older.

  For a fraction of a second he envisioned the face and form of the girl his father had recently chosen for him to marry. She was a confection of creamy white skin, rosy lips, fluffy blond hair, and fluffy ideas. To Jessie’s credit, he doubted she would ever have the kind of malleability his father had desired in a daughter-in-law.

  Like a well-aimed dart, Jessie’s dismayed glance of recognition pierced him. He bowed in her direction. Reading disapproval in the set of her chin, he prepared himself for a thorough jousting.

  The bat cracked. Lee’s glance darted back to the play. Foul ball. As Jessie reached them, the faint fragrance of lavender wafted from her. Perhaps inside the widow’s armor, a soft, feminine woman still breathed.

  Jessie stepped between Mr. Smith and her son, keeping her irritation out of her voice. This wasn’t Linc’s fault. But more exasperating was her own reaction at seeing this stranger again. She couldn’t ignore the effect his gaze had on her.

  “Lincoln, why didn’t he run to base?”

  “Hello, Mother. The ball went outside the boundaries of the bases. See?”

  “I do.” She glanced at Mr. Smith, but he said nothing. The player hit another ball that popped upward and was caught. Linc cheered as the hand-held score cards were changed. Jessie stepped behind Linc.

  Mr. Smith said, “The White Stockings are back at bat now, ma’am.”

  She looked sideways at him, out of the seclusion of her severe bonnet. Was it by coincidence or design that this man kept appearing today? Worry pinched her and she prayed silently for wisdom. Why had this man popped up in their lives? And how could she get rid of him? “You’re a baseball enthusiast, then?” She made her tone say clearly she wasn’t pleased to find him here with her son.

  “I am.”

  Jessie heard a man shout, “Three strikes!” When Linc groaned with disgust along with the rest of the audi
ence, she asked, “What happened?”

  Mr. Smith answered, “You’re new to the game? I thought Linc would have instructed you in baseball.”

  His voice was meant to charm; she pursed her lips. “One of my neighbor’s sons began bringing him to amateur games only at the end of last summer.”

  “I see.”

  Trying to ignore the man beside her, Jessie watched the game without further comment. Then she bent her head to read the face of her pendant watch. “Linc, I must be getting home.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Jessie smiled to herself at her son’s complete concentration on the game, but remembering the stranger she added, “Come straight home, son.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Supper will be at six as usual.”

  “Yes, mother.”

  “Make sure you come in quietly so Miss Wright won’t scold you.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Even in the midst of her concern about this stranger, she swallowed her amusement at her son’s sanguine personality, so like his father. Nothing spoiled his enjoyment of life. She turned to face Mr. Smith. “I will bid you good day.” She emphasized her words, making “good day” mean “depart forever.”

  “Good day to you, Mrs. Wagstaff.” He bowed slightly and rested his hand on Linc’s shoulder. The boy looked up with a grin at him. Jessie walked away, fuming.

  “He was at the game!” Jessie let the kitchen door slam behind her.

  “That man?” Standing by the stove, Susan turned to face her.

  “Yes, that man.” Jessie whipped off her bonnet and jerked it down onto the hook on the wall.

  “He with Lincoln?”

  “Yes.” Impatiently Jessie tugged open her wrist buttons, folded up her sleeves, then reached for her apron. “I don’t like it. He shows up this morning sitting on our porch at a time that no man should be anywhere but in bed.”

  “I’m agreeing with you.” Susan turned the potato slices sizzling in the hot fat.