She blew out a breath. It just didn’t seem right such people should exist in America. The reverend was right. Grace had to be careful. When no one was looking, she entered Mr. Parker’s office and dropped the envelope of money on his desk. He’d find it when he returned from work. Maybe he would get the message and not bring it up again.
Grace muttered under her breath later in the day as she polished crystal glasses and placed them back in the dining room sideboard. Christmas Eve and she was expected to create such fancy dishes as she’d never seen before. “Spiced chutney and turtle soup and butter crème pie. How am I supposed to make those things? And why would anyone want to eat them?”
She closed the door on the sideboard and moaned softly when she heard Linden cry out from his nap. She stood absolutely still, hoping he’d go back to sleep. The mistress had gone to her garden club’s annual Christmas meeting at the house next door, a rare outing for the woman, and she’d only gone because the neighbor had promised to call the midwife if Alice had any problems. Mrs. Parker had potted a cutting from a violet she’d wintered indoors and was proud to be taking it to the Christmas gift exchange. If plants had not been involved, Grace was sure the woman would never have risen from the couch.
Hazel and Holly had gone with their mother to play with the children next door. They had a nanny who would supervise during the garden club gathering, thankfully. Grace needed to study the cookbook.
The house quieted again. When she opened her eyes, she looked down at her shoes. Ill-humored Mrs. Parker, before she headed next door, had insisted Grace purchase new ones—and at her own expense. “After all, they’re on your feet, not mine. Why should I buy them? I pay you enough.”
Grace sat on the sofa and let her legs dangle over the edge. If expenses kept gobbling up her pay, how would she ever get her mother over?
She thought about the extra money she had turned down. Tempting, that had been. Where did the man get all his money?
The postman turned the bell on the door.
She greeted him.
“Good day. Letters for the Parker family.”
She took the papers from his hand and thanked him. Closing the door firmly behind her and glancing toward the stairs, hoping the sound hadn’t awakened wee Linden, she placed the mail on a silver tray in the parlor near the chair where Mr. Parker reclined most evenings. The letter on top caught her attention. Sanitation Department, Re: Chatham Square property. Grace had begun to learn her way around, and she knew that Chatham Square in the Bowery was a place to avoid. And Mr. Parker actually owned property down there. She questioned what she had gotten herself into by working for this man, and more importantly what he might expose his children to, the ones he so adamantly proclaimed he wanted to protect. There was definitely more to this man than what first appeared. She would have to be more than just careful. She would have to be vigilant.
She straightened the doilies on the furniture and picked up the cookbook. Ma would know what to do, but Grace could not risk putting this information in a letter.
Grace tried to shake the thoughts from her mind. She’d have to keep holding on to the confidence that had driven her thus far. She desperately needed to believe that she could get what she wanted if she tried hard enough. She would need to ignore the disparity between Mr. Parker’s words and his deeds. One way or another she’d need to fan the embers of her certainty that she could survive in this place before it was completely extinguished.
Linden fussed and then burst into a full wail. She scrambled up the steps toward him. The poor lad had become almost as irritable as his mother. She wondered what he’d do once there was a baby in the house. She lifted the whimpering lad onto her lap and sat on the edge of his bed, pulling his sleep-damp curls up under her chin. “There, there, now.”
“Sing, Miss Gracie, pleeeeze.”
She crooned the song she’d learned on the ship to America. A fellow sang it over and over for days, so she’d had no choice but to memorize it. She’d let Linden believe it was the melody her mother sang to her as a child, but she’d had no lullabies in fact.
“The pale moon was rising above the green mountains,
The sun was declining beneath the blue sea,
When I strayed with my love to the pure crystal fountain,
That stands in the beautiful vale of Tralee.
“She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer,
Yet ’twas not her beauty alone that won me.
Oh no, ’twas the truth in her eyes ever dawning,
That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.”
She stroked his fair hair. Grace longed for the truth in her mother’s eyes, the way the songwriter had missed that something special in his love.
Grace was a good nanny, wasn’t she? Finally something she actually could do well. “Linden, what do you say we go for a walk?”
He bobbed his blond head. She helped him dress, complete with mittens, boots, and a hat. She gathered a blanket to bring along. There were only dribs and drabs of gray snow on the ground. They’d have no trouble walking about.
She always brought her camera with her although she had little time to use it. The sun was out. Maybe today was a good day.
She held tighter to Linden’s hand than he cared for, but she could not risk losing him in the crowds. Soon enough they found a small park, and she let him free to run among the tufts of dormant grass and chase a few pigeons.
Grace stood tall, her Brownie camera firm against her chest. When the right time came, she snapped the shutter. Those fleeting moments when the light was just right and the boy’s face held an expression she wanted to capture were like wee gifts of joy to Grace. She wished she could see the photographs instantly to know if she’d captured what she hoped. She knew she needed a lot of practice.
“Many a little makes a mickle,” she remembered Mrs. Hawkins saying. Another of Harold Hawkins’s proverbs. This one, Mrs. Hawkins said, meant that wee bits of effort could add up to much, and Grace hoped that applied to her picture-taking practice. She was finally doing what she’d been dreaming of. Freezing a moment in time for future study. Linden had that light in his soul that beamed through other faces she’d noticed, the innocence that all too soon vanished. If only she had it too.
She snapped a couple more shots of the boy. Maybe these would cheer his mother.
She returned to the spot she’d selected for them on a bench and counted her remaining exposures. Linden ran up to her. “You are the most wonderfullest, Miss Gracie.” He gave her a big hug. Maybe her job wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe she really was able.
“Most wonderful,” she corrected, blinking in the midwinter sun. She gave him another hug and sent him off. “Just a few more minutes, Linden. I don’t want you to get too cold.”
When they arrived home, she was surprised to find Mr. Parker waiting for them.
“Where have you been with my son?” His stiff posture and harsh tone ran through her like knives.
“Father!” Linden hugged his father’s leg.
Mr. Parker bent down and pushed him away. “Be a man, Lindy.”
The lad put on a straight face, then smiled when he looked at Grace. “Miss Gracie is the most wonderful . . .” The lad paused to get approval from her. “The most wonderful nanny!”
“Is she now?” The man still glowered at her.
“She took me to the park.”
“We were not gone long, Mr. Parker.”
The man pulled off his son’s muddy boots and handed them to her and then the lad’s coat.
“Off to the washroom, Linden,” she said, beginning to follow him.
“Hold on, Grace.”
She cringed.
“I do not want my son out there among the city vagrants.”
She turned. “’Tis a very nice park. I saw no one you would object to there. Lots of folks like yourselves.”
He tugged at his shirtsleeves. “I will not argue, Grace. You’ve done a fine job thus far, and I see tha
t you do not require any extra pay for that because you’ve returned the . . . bonus.”
“I meant no offense.”
“None taken. It’s quite admirable on your part. In addition, we will need you here to help with the new baby. But my children will stay in the house when they are not in school or escorted by me or my wife.”
She lowered her head, bit her tongue, and tried to remain calm. “As you wish.”
“When they need fresh air, I will take them on a holiday to the shore . . . or someplace . . . where they may play in a suitable environment.”
She hadn’t seen that happen so far. “I understand. I’m sorry.” A lie, may God forgive her.
With a jerk of his chin he moved toward the door. “I came home to pick up some papers from my desk. I’m leaving now. Mrs. Parker and the girls are still next door. I checked. I will let them know you’ve returned home.”
She glanced at the tray next to his chair. The letter on top was missing. His hat sat next to the mail. She handed it to him. When he was gone, she exhaled. These children truly needed her.
18
“I WANT YOU TWO TO STICK TOGETHER,” Captain Nicholson said, tugging on his mustache as he, Jake, and Owen stood in front of the assignment board after the group meeting. “Headquarters doesn’t think the Dusters pose much of a threat, and that much we can use to our advantage.”
Owen swallowed hard. There were thugs out there wanting Owen to back off—and Devery, who wanted Owen to realize he knew about it. Headquarters most certainly cared about the Dusters, though Owen didn’t yet know why or why they wanted Captain Nicholson to ignore the cocaine-addicted troublemakers. For all he knew, headquarters might put the screws to Nicholson at some point for sending some of his men out after them. He and Jake would have to expedite things.
The captain went on. “I think you boys could make headway, seeing as Jake is a common man folks will relate to, and you, Owen, know the beat so well.”
Jake and Owen returned to the locker room to prepare for work. “What’s been going on in the park?” Owen asked, seeing as Jake had been there when Owen had the night off.
Jake shrugged on his uniform jacket. “The Hudson Dusters riffraff are stirring up some trouble as always, just like the captain says. But nothing I couldn’t handle, not so far anyway.” He finished buttoning his jacket and grinned. “Say, that little fellow you befriended has been awful helpful. I arrested two thugs on my solo night.”
“No sign of Goo Goo?”
“Not so far.”
When they reached the park, they found their young informant right away.
“Hello, there, Mikey. How are things?” Owen put a hand on the lad’s shoulder.
“Fine, Officer. Seen two purse snatchings today.”
“Well, that’s down from the four you saw last time.” Owen handed the lad a penny for candy. “Say, you see that fella we talked about much? Smokey?” He was the one Duster Owen could identify. Easy, because whenever he was about, he let everyone know who he was.
“Yeah. He hangs around a lot.”
Jake bent low to talk to the lad. “Who’s he with?”
“Mostly alone. Seen him talking to a few fellows but never the same ones.”
Owen figured the meetings were drug exchanges.
“Heard any names mentioned when you were playing tag around the statue, Mikey?”
“Nah. Nothing.”
“One more thing, Mikey.”
“Sure, Officer.”
Jake stood behind the lad to make sure he didn’t run off before Owen was done with him. “Mention my questions to anyone? Anyone with a badge?”
The lad screwed up his lips and then answered. “Like who?”
“Man my size except much heavier.”
“No, Officer.”
“Sure?”
“Well, I never talked about you, but . . . maybe I did see a police fellow like that down here.”
“Any of your friends talk to him?”
“Might have. Not me, though.”
Owen put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “I’m your friend, right, Mikey?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“You can trust me.”
“I know.”
“Just keep an eye out and let me know where you see this guy named Smokey. Don’t get too close, though. Hear me? I don’t want you talking to the fellow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Swell. Run along, Mikey.”
When he’d gone, Jake shook his head. “I’m changing my mind about that one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Something shifty about his answers just now. I’m not sure you can trust that ragamuffin, Owen.”
“I’m not sure either.”
“Who do you think talked to him? That fella Feeny?”
“Nah.”
Owen walked with his partner, recalling the briefing at the precinct. “The day-shift officers closed down one party house run by the Dusters gang over on West Thirtieth near the Hudson River docks.” He gazed toward the harbor. “That’s more than an hour on foot from here.”
Jake shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. Doesn’t make much sense, them all the way over here.”
“Say, Jakey. You suppose those lazy bums have a rowboat? The trip around the tip of Manhattan is much shorter on the water.”
“Good point.”
They moved toward the water to patrol around the boats. Nothing going today, though. Owen filled Jake in about his encounter with the police chief.
Jake twirled his nightstick. “Doesn’t sit well that Big Bill knew about your work down here. Not well at all.”
“I agree. But I’ve already talked to Mikey about Smokey Davis. That’s nothing new Big Bill could pin on me. Let’s just keep our eyes and ears open out here.”
Jake nudged his hat back with the tip of his nightstick. “Heard plenty about these Dusters even over in Brooklyn. Folks, even well-to-do types, like to party with them. Would be good to keep those addicts out of a park like this.” Jake tipped his chin toward the kids. “Over in the west village, one of the Dusters—they call him Ding Dong—roped street kids into sneaking into places he can’t fit so he can steal goods from merchants.”
“Despicable,” Owen said.
They continued walking through the park, keeping an eye on happenings.
Jake broke the silence. “Tell me about your award. What was that about?”
“Embarrassing, mostly.”
“Tell me about Dan O’Toole.”
Owen sighed, licked his lips, and began to relate the details he did not like telling. Nicholson trusted Jake. Owen thought he could too. Jake might as well know the whole story.
“One day in ’98 I tried to reach a little girl who was standing in the path of a trolley. Dead Man’s Curve, they call that intersection, where the trolleys run out of control. Officer O’Toole was trying to do the same thing. We both failed.”
“Oh, wow. The girl died?”
Owen pursed his lips and nodded. “And O’Toole. He was struck and later died too.”
Jake wagged his head. “We see some awful things out on the streets, but when it’s a child and a cop? Well, that’s the worse.”
“I wasn’t with the force then. I didn’t know O’Toole. I was just a civilian riding in a carriage. After that I realized I had a mission in life.”
Jake slapped him on the shoulder. “You tried. Most folks would not have.”
Owen rubbed a hand over his face, hoping Jake hadn’t seen how emotional this was for him. His partner was right. They saw atrocious happenings all the time. But that day . . . he hadn’t been prepared for it, not that he could have been. And no one else helped. Not even Owen’s father. People had to help each other and if they just wouldn’t . . . well, Owen had known he would have to wear a badge to make sure—to try to make sure—fewer horrible accidents happened with no one around willing to lend a hand.
Owen stared at the gray clouds overhead her
alding the approach of sunset. It was only half past three, but a cloudy winter day in Manhattan could feel like nighttime. “Think we got a chance, Jakey?”
“Huh?”
“Nicholson thinks we can get these guys, but he doesn’t know that Big Bill is on to us.”
“Somebody’s got to stand in the face of Tammany and show ’em what’s right and decent. Might as well be us. And besides, maybe you getting that award, and it being in the papers and all, will get Big Bill to back off.”
“Hope so.”
Late in the evening, Owen and Jake stopped into a diner for coffee. “Surprised you’re open on Christmas Eve, Joe. How are things?” Owen set his hat down on the counter.
“Slow as molasses in January. There’s the occasional bum and cop needing to warm up, so here I am. I’ll hang the Closed sign up in time for church.” He poured black coffee into two white mugs.
Jake plopped onto a stool. “Quiet sounds good right about now.”
Joe shook his head. “I’m closing up for good next week.”
Owen joined his partner at the counter. “Why, Joe? Not enough business?”
“Oh, the lunch crowd’s dandy. But the saloons do all the nighttime business. Got an offer to work in my cousin’s shop in Buffalo. Suppose I will do that.”
Owen lifted his cup. “We’ll miss you, Joe.”
“Me? You fellows come around once a fortnight.”
Owen retrieved a doughnut from a cake stand. “We’ve been on the park beat. Probably be assigned there next week as well.”
“Ah, shucks.” Joe made a fist and pounded the air. “More reason for me to get out. Those coppers, the others? Ain’t no more crooked fellows on the face of the earth.”
Jake, unfazed, took a doughnut for himself. “Don’t say that, Joe. We’re all doing the best we can out here.”
Cindy Thomson - [Ellis Island 01] Page 14
