American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  He knew from the instant the smirk appeared that she was going to give him trouble. Normally, she reserved her fiercest glare for him. Not today. She was definitely smirking, all right, and it was the kind of knowing, mean-spirited smirk the woman might wear to the execution of an archenemy.

  Someone like himself.

  In an attempt to thwart whatever the harridan might have up her sleeve, Frank shot her a smile of his own, guaranteed to melt her resistance.

  In return, he received a thoroughly venomous scowl.

  There would be no melting of the Iron Matron today.

  All right, then—back to business. “I’ll just be speakin’ with Miss Lambert,” he said, starting down the hall.

  “Not today, you won’t,” she said, stopping him on the first step.

  Surprised—for he’d already determined that the woman was a coward at heart and would quickly retreat in the face of an actual challenge—Frank slowly removed his hat, tucked it under his arm, and leaned forward, bracing one hand on the table at which she sat.

  “Is that so? And why would that be, Miss Savage?”

  There was the smirk again. “Because she isn’t here.”

  She leaned back and crossed her arms over her bony bosom, watching him with a kind of gleeful malice.

  Caught off guard, Frank straightened. “What do you mean, she isn’t here?”

  “Miss Lambert had already exceeded the time allotted for treatment. She was checked out this morning.”

  “By whose orders?”

  Her eyes glinted. “Mine, of course. I am the head matron. Or weren’t you aware of that—Sergeant?”

  The wicked old fishwife was clearly indulging in some sort of unholy amusement at his expense. Frank wanted to go across the table and snatch her by her wattled throat. Instead, he checked his temper and favored her with a tight-lipped smile.

  “So then, where would I be findin’ Miss Lambert?”

  Her eyebrows shot up in a look of mock innocence. “Well, how would I know that? The clinic’s responsibility for a patient ends when she walks out the door.”

  Despite Frank’s resolve not to let the woman provoke him, she was doing an admirable job of just that. “You set her out in the rain, not knowin’ if she has a place to go?” he said, his tone hard with an edge of warning.

  “As I told you, Sergeant, we can hardly be responsible for every addict we treat after they leave the premises. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other patients who require attention.”

  She made a show of gathering up some charts, and now Frank did go across the table. He slammed his hat down, sending her charts flying in all directions and, bracing both hands on the scarred wooden top, he leaned forward until he was in her face, close enough to smell her stale breath.

  “You don’t want to aggravate me, Miss Savage,” he bit out with deliberate menace. “Really, you don’t. If you have a thought as to where Mary Lambert might have gone, it would be in your best interests to tell me and not make me ask again.”

  At least he had the satisfaction of seeing her shrink from him. To her credit, however, she recovered quickly. “I told you. I have absolutely no way of knowing where the woman might have gone. Now I suggest you leave, Sergeant, or else—”

  “Or else what?” Frank countered, digging his fingers into the desk to keep from shaking the old witch. “You’ll call the police?”

  He could feel the rage boiling up in him but knew he’d accomplish nothing by exploding, so he contented himself with taking a swipe at the row of tins and bottles on the table and knocking them to the floor with a terrible clamor. Then he straightened, pointed a finger at the furious matron, and issued a warning: “You’d best hope I find Mary Lambert, woman! She’s at the heart of a criminal investigation. And if I don’t find her and find her soon, I’m coming back here to haul your sorry self straight to the Tombs for obstructing that investigation.”

  As he went tearing out the door and down the steps into the rain-slick streets, it crossed Frank’s mind that he hadn’t a hope of doing any such thing. He could hardly lock up a clinic matron for discharging a patient—though he doubted Miss Savage knew that.

  Besides, he had no intention of carrying out his threat.

  He would find Mary Lambert, and he would find her today.

  The thought of that poor woman walking the streets of New York—homeless, defenseless, in a sorely weakened condition, and in this weather—rode Frank’s back like a devilish buzzard. He practically pounced on every slight figure with fair hair until each turned around with a look of wanting to slap his face or else take off running.

  He didn’t dare question himself too closely as to why one small woman with an opium habit should be important enough for him to lose a full day’s work in an effort to find her. True, she was crucial to his efforts to rescue Doc from that barrage of vile attacks and clear his good name in the process. But was that the only reason for his dogged search?

  Some carefully guarded place deep inside him was trying to force itself open and entice him to search among the secrets hidden there, along with the possibilities and forgotten dreams. But Frank Donovan had long ago learned to keep that place securely bolted even against himself. Once again he deliberately closed his mind to it—refusing to think, refusing to question, as he continued to roam the teeming streets of the city.

  All day he walked in the rain, pressing his way through the crush of other pedestrians and vehicle traffic, finally taking to his department’s mount, the dun-colored Attila, in an increasingly desperate search for Mary Lambert.

  If an occasional uneasy thought nagged him about the reason for his tireless pursuit, he reminded himself it would take more than a frail, flaxen-haired woman to bring down the walls of that well-guarded chamber in his heart.

  25

  DREAD REMEMBRANCE

  Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing

  But tares, self-sown, have overtopp’d the wheat.

  AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE

  The rain was steady now. It would soon be dark, and Mary Lambert still had nowhere to go.

  Many hours had passed since she had been dismissed from the Women’s Clinic. Morning had turned to afternoon, and afternoon to evening. The rain poured down in cold sheets and Mary fervently wished she had a coat. When Miss Savage discharged her this morning, she’d said Mary wasn’t wearing a coat when she was admitted, and since it was April, she wouldn’t be needing one anyway.

  It might be April, but Mary was cold. Cold all the way to the bone.

  Her dress was sopping wet and clung heavily to her body. Her hair hung in sodden ropes. It was a miserable evening, and she glanced longingly into the shop windows that displayed their various wares in the warm radiance of gaslight and candle glow. She wasn’t exactly lost, but she was frightened and trying not to show her fear lest some of the bounders roaming the Bowery try to take advantage.

  Her first thought when she was released was to go and find her children. Robert and Lily and Kate. She longed to see their faces, tell them how sorry she was. But although Dr. Carmichael had told her where they were staying, in the fog of withdrawal from the opium, she had forgotten what he said. So she had gone to the old flat on Mulberry Street, knowing her hopes were foolish but still compelled to see for herself that her children were no longer there.

  Not only were her babies gone, but so was everyone else she had known in the neighborhood. She should have expected as much. Renters came and went in waves in the tenement districts.

  After that, she’d set out to find the doctor’s office. Surely he would help her. He was a kind man, and Dr. Cole was such a fine lady. Good people—and Mary hadn’t known many good people during the time she’d lived in New York.

  The trouble was, she couldn’t remember which street the doctor’s office was on, if indeed he had told her at all. So she’d wandered aimlessly for a while, feeling weak and numb and increasingly ill. Despite all the misery she’d gone through to shake her opium habit, s
he knew that if she had any money at all she would go looking for the evil stuff.

  But she had no money. She had nothing. Growing desperate now, she stopped a middle-aged man who wore the clothing of a laborer and appeared a decent-enough sort. He eyed her somewhat curiously, but his voice was kind when he directed her to Dr. Carmichael’s practice.

  The moment she spied Elizabeth Street, she began to run, the water squishing out over the tops of her shoes as she went. At the sight of the shingle announcing the doctors’ offices, she slowed, then flung herself against the door at the side of the building—only to find it locked. She went around to the front and peered through the window, but there was no light, no sign that anyone was inside.

  At that point, Mary could bear no more. She went back to the side door and inched herself under the narrow overhang of the tin roof. Exhausted and weak to the point of collapse, she slid down onto the stoop and began to weep.

  What a miserable failure she was. She had failed everyone who ever loved her. She had failed her children most of all. Oh, what she had done to them!

  She had failed her parents as well. They had begged her not to leave their home in Ohio. But, oh, she would come to New York, for she was going to be a great stage actress. That dream had faded in a cloud of smoke before her first year in the city had passed. She was “too small,” they said, “too childlike,” and her voice wasn’t “right.”

  She’d been left to support herself by washing dishes in a Bowery tavern during the afternoons and checking coats and hats in a “gentlemen’s club” at night. The trouble was that many of the “gentlemen” picking up their outerwear after a night of drinking and gambling were interested in picking her up as well. She’d been dismissed from that place after slapping a horse-faced young dandy with bold hands and a filthy mouth who was intent on dragging her into the coat room.

  That was when she’d gone to the mission house seeking assistance. And that was where she had met Robert Warburton.

  She’d been so naïve all those years ago. Even after a year in the city, she still thought a properly dressed gentleman with a Reverend before his name, a man with a kind smile and a “God bless you!” for each unfortunate in the food line, could be trusted.

  Robert was volunteering that day, helping to serve meals alongside some of the women from his congregation’s benevolence committee. He seemed to take a personal interest in everyone he served, coming around to the tables, introducing himself, and visiting with each one individually.

  He was a plain man, not the sort to fancy himself irresistible to women, and he had an amiable, almost an avuncular manner that set her at ease from the first meeting. His concern for Mary appeared to be sincere and immediate, and when he appeared the next afternoon at the tavern where she washed dishes she was genuinely glad to see him. Then when he offered her employment as assistant manager of an apartment building he claimed to own—a position that included free rent and furnishings—she nearly fell at his feet and wept.

  If it struck her as curious that a man of the cloth would own an entire apartment building—much less more than one—she didn’t bother to question it too deeply. After inquiring among a few of the regulars at the mission, she soon learned that Warburton’s congregation was one of the largest and most prosperous in the city. It was said that his wife was also an heiress, a very wealthy woman in her own right.

  Even when he began to drop by the apartment just to “check on the building” and see how she was faring, Mary suspected nothing improper. He was a clergyman, after all, and she was one of his employees. It never occurred to her to question whether his other employees were treated as well as she.

  As time went on, he began bringing her gifts, small things, at first—a tin of sweetmeats, a canister of coffee, a loaf of bread from the nearby German bakery. Later, when the visits became more frequent and the gifts more lavish, he dismissed her protests with the explanation that, not having children of his own, he took great pleasure in “fussing over” his younger employees.

  Over time, Mary actually grew fond of him—not in a romantic sense, but as she might have developed affection for an older friend or relative. She looked forward to his visits with an eagerness that had nothing to do with the gifts he brought or any sort of interest in a clandestine relationship, but much to do with her need for human companionship. She was lonely, and he was kind to her, and she was willing to overlook the questionable propriety of his visits for the simple pleasure of his presence.

  Then came an evening when she was feeling particularly isolated and downhearted. Robert came around later than usual, bearing a small velvet box in which rested a delicate gold and pearl locket, the loveliest piece of jewelry Mary had ever seen. As she knew she must, she refused to accept it—and continued to refuse until, crestfallen, he appeared to wipe some suspicious dampness from his eyes. At that moment she softened, and he declared his affection for her, slipping the locket around her neck and begging her to listen as he explained, haltingly at first, the true state of his marriage. A wife who was no helpmate, a sickly older woman whom he respected and would never embarrass or humiliate, but whom he could not bring himself to love.

  Mary realized later that the whole tale was taken straight from the pages of the most lurid dime novel, a story that countless men before him had no doubt used to win over an innocent. But she was young and admittedly foolish, and he had become more important to her than she’d realized.

  That was the night she became his mistress.

  Robert continued to be good to her as time passed. Indeed, when they were together, no husband could have been more devoted.

  She knew all along that he wouldn’t marry her, of course. He’d made that perfectly clear from the beginning of their affair. He was a widely known, influential member of the clergy, a respected community leader, and an esteemed author and speaker. He told her clearly that he would never do anything to hurt his wife or disappoint or disillusion his “flock.” The Lord was depending on him to further His kingdom, and no hint of scandal must be allowed to touch him or his expanding ministry.

  Mary understood. For the most part, she was glad of his attention and company. He brought her books and newspapers, told her she was beautiful and talented, made sure she had what she needed. The security of knowing he cared for her outweighed the nagging shame of being a kept woman.

  Gradually, however, things began to change. He didn’t come to the flat as often, and when he did come, he seldom brought a gift. He also began to exhibit certain behavior during their intimate times together that disturbed her slightly. For the most part, however, she managed to dismiss her disappointment and uneasiness.

  Besides, she was expecting a child.

  Not long after their son was born, Robert moved them to a larger flat. For a time, he seemed to lose interest in the physical side of their relationship. He spent an afternoon or an evening with them once a week or so, but seemed content merely to have dinner, play with the baby for a while, and then leave.

  Most often he appeared to be tired and preoccupied. But because Mary knew how involved and busy he was—and because she had no real choice—she never complained.

  For over a year they existed this way, more as companionable friends than as lovers. Then everything changed, and the undercurrents she’d sensed earlier in their relationship came to the surface. Little by little, his demands turned aberrant—or at least what Mary sensed to be aberrant. She was ignorant for the most part about such things, but despite her naiveté, she knew that much of what Robert Warburton required of her was unnatural. Unnatural and degrading.

  In a matter of months, he had involved her in practices that made her lose all respect for him and even begin to hate him. She learned things about him she would have never dreamed of—horrid things that both astonished and sickened her.

  She began to plot and scheme about getting away from him, taking little Robert and escaping to a place where they couldn’t be found. She had no money—he kept close wa
tch on the meager “household funds” he allowed her. She was desperate to leave, but with no independent income and little Robert just past two, there was little hope of escape. She was trapped, at least for the time being.

  She decided to stay and make the best of it, at least until her son was older. But the months turned into years, and eventually she found herself with child again—and again, for within months of giving birth to Lily, she discovered that Kate was on the way.

  The only thing that kept her from completely going to pieces at this point was her fear for her children—and the fact that at least when she was pregnant, Robert left her alone. It was as if he was repulsed by her condition. The respite from his deviant physical demands was such a relief that she dreaded the day when the child would be born.

  As it happened, the baby came early. Another little girl. Kate was a sickly infant from the beginning. She couldn’t seem to nurse properly, and she suffered so badly from colic that at times Mary thought she would go mad with the infant’s incessant screaming.

  This time, when Robert began to insist on “his rights” again, Mary fought him and refused any further physical intimacy. She also made the incredibly foolish mistake of threatening to make his wife and even his church congregation aware of what she knew about him.

  It was the worst thing she could have done. Robert was not a tall man, but he was thickset and brawny, and he found it nothing more than an inconvenience to force himself on the much smaller Mary, especially as weak and ill as she was at the time.

  The encounter was so fierce that Mary thought she would surely die of it. Robert actually seemed remorseful that night, and before leaving he coaxed her into trying some “medicine” he’d brought with him. Knowing how “delicate” she was and how difficult it seemed to be for her to contend with his “admittedly strong passions,” he explained that he had procured something for her that would not only ease her “discomfort,” but would also counteract those “terrible black moods” from which she seemed to suffer more and more.