“Can you be brave for me?” asked Phil. “Be brave like Eddie, okay?”
Mary lessened her grip and let Phil set her on the floor of the loft.
“Pet kitty. It’ll distract you,” said Phil.
The light had gone out of Mary’s eyes. She nodded, dully. “Bye, Phil.”
“Bye, Moo.”
She cried as she walked to the end of the road. Susan’s truck was there, waiting. She got in and stared straight ahead, not allowing herself a glance back.
**
Five days later, she exited the train in San Francisco. Other than her transfer in Chicago, it had been a continuous trip. Grimy, she washed as best she could in the station restroom and changed clothes. She had not been able to afford the cost of the sleeper car, so she had slept sitting up and now felt at least a hundred years old as she crossed the floor. It was late afternoon and the station smelled of urine and engine oil and bustled with people, all walking fast, bumping into her with satchels, purses, and shoulders. Heart pounding, she headed to the doors, praying that her next step would be apparent.
Once outside, she looked up and down the street. The weather was cool and cloudy. Wasn’t California supposed to be sunny all the time? She had no idea where she was and knew the only solution was to ask someone for help. An older woman, well-dressed, stood near a lamppost, seemingly waiting for someone. Phil approached, putting on her best smile, glad she’d taken a moment to put red lipstick on so that she might look a few years older than she was. “Excuse me, ma’am.”
“Yes, dear?”
“I’m Philippa Rains.” She held out her hand.
The woman took it, and they shook. “Mrs. Crowson.”
“I’m new to town, and I wonder if you might point me in the direction of the factories?”
Mrs. Crowson’s mouth twitched, like she was trying not to smile. “Factories? Which kind?”
“I’m a seamstress. Needing work.”
An expression of understanding crossed her face. “I see. Well, some of the Bennetts’ factories are hiring, I know. They’re always hiring it seems, making uniforms for the troops, and all this dreadful ready-to-wear clothing.”
“Would you be so kind as to tell me how to get there? Could I walk?”
“Oh, no. It would be much too far.” A black car, fancier than Phil had ever seen, pulled alongside the woman. “Come with me. We’ll take you.”
Phil hesitated. Her mother always said never to get into the car with a stranger. Yet, this was an extreme circumstance and the woman looked harmless enough. “All right, yes. Thank you,” said Phil.
The driver was out of the car by now, opening the back door. He wore a black suit and a hat. A chauffer. A real live chauffer, like in books. Phil, despite her anxiety, she shivered with excitement. If only she had someone to tell. They settled into the back seat of the car. Mrs. Crowson wore stockings. Where had she gotten them? Perhaps the black market wasn’t just a rumor.
“Mrs. Crowson, we headed home?” asked the driver, taking off his hat. He was young with freckles and red hair.
“Not yet, Frederick. Do you know where the Bennett clothing factories are?”
“Yes, Mrs. Crowson, up in the Northeast Waterfront,” he said. “Warehouse District. Greenwich Street.”
“Excellent. We’re going to drop this young woman over that direction before we head home.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Crowson settled back in her seat. “Tell me, Miss Rains, what brings you to San Francisco?”
“My husband died in the war and I have no family, so I decided to come west. To the land of opportunity.” She had planned her story on the train, but was surprised how easily it rolled from her tongue. “Now that I’m here, I feel frightened. There are so many people.”
Mrs. Crowson made a sympathetic clicking sound with her tongue. “I’m sorry for your loss. Too many young widows these days.”
“Thank you. We were only married a short time, but I knew him all my life.” Although half the sentence was a lie, she choked up, thinking of Eddie. “He died in combat.”
“How awful. You poor dear,” said Mrs. Crowson. “How old are you, Mrs. Rains?”
“Twenty,” she lied.
“You don’t look older than sixteen. I suppose the city will age you fast enough.”
Phil turned her gaze to the sights. They passed buildings with ornate trim and houses built in a row with very little room between them. The streets were up and down and narrow. How did people drive here? The main street of her hometown was wide enough for cars to park at an angle on both sides of the street. The sky seemed closer here, obscured by all the buildings. Jail Bonds was etched into a building. What on earth were those? They crested a hill and the Golden Gate Bridge and the bay appeared.
“Breathtaking,” said Phil.
“They don’t have that in Iowa, I expect.”
“No, ma’am, we do not.”
They passed a trolley, creeping up a steep street. How did it not fall backward? People hung from the sides, perched precariously. How did they not fall out?
“Your eyes, Mrs. Rains, are as big as saucers.” Mrs. Crowson chuckled. “It’s refreshing to see it from your eyes. A person gets used to something and hardly sees it any longer.”
“When I left home, I tried to memorize certain things that I’d taken for granted,” said Phil.
“I hope you won’t be too homesick.”
“It’s so different here. Different than I expected,” said Phil.
“What did you expect?” asked Mrs. Crowson.
“Palm trees.”
“That’s farther south, dear.”
Mrs. Crowson told her they were at Fisherman’s Wharf now. It bustled with activity. Boats of all shapes and sizes populated the piers. Phil spotted tugboats, fishing boats, and even a few luxury liners. Men and women hawked goods in front of the wharf in an open market: fish, crab, flowers, even taffy. On the shores, fishermen were pulling a large net. Women and men dressed in beautiful clothing dined outside on the patio of a café, with waiters dressed in red uniforms. “It’s glorious,” said Phil.
“You won’t think so after a time. Smells like fish and dirty people.”
After a few minutes the scenery changed to large brick buildings. “This is where a lot of manufacturing goes on,” said Mrs. Crowson. “Frederick, which do the Bennetts own?”
“Practically this whole area,” he said. “They manufacture munitions, ship parts, clothing. You name it and they make it.”
“The Bennetts are an old-time San Francisco family. Money goes back to the 1800s. Gold Rush money, I believe,” said Mrs. Crowson. “Mrs. Bennett—Sophie—and I came out together. We both married well, but she married a little more well than I.” Mrs. Crowson chuckled, waving her hand in front of her face like she was trying to get rid of a fly buzzing around her head. “Anyway, despite their wealth, they’re lovely people. They put the rest of us to shame with their philanthropy. You could do worse than to work for them.”
Frederick had pulled the car over to the curb in front of the brick building. “Mrs. Rains, if you please, I will escort you to the front doors.”
“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” said Phil. “You’ve been so kind to bring me here. Do you think there are rooms to rent anywhere around here?”
Frederick met her eyes in his rearview mirror. “If you get hired, mention you’re looking for a place to stay. The other girls will know where to send you.”
She thanked them again and got out of the car, carrying her small suitcase toward the front of the building. Sure enough, on the door was a sign listing all the different positions they were hiring, including seamstresses. She walked in and ventured down a dark hallway until she saw an office. A young woman sat at a desk, typing, but looked up when Phil tapped on the door. “I’m here about work. Sewing.”
“Have a seat. Mr. Dreeser will be with you in a moment.” The secretary was blond, with a long face and rather large nose, both
of which made her look like one of Eddie’s horses.
“Mr. Dreeser?”
“Yes, Miller Dreeser. The boss.” She went back to her typing, the clicking of the keys in a steady rhythm, interrupted by the sound of the bell and the lever when she came to the end of a line.
After a few minutes, two men came out of the office, both in dark suits. One, of a slight build with black eyes and hair, patted the other man’s a shoulder. “Good to see you, Timmy. Can’t thank you enough for taking care of this for me. It was getting too close for my comfort.”
Timmy, short and stout with a rather long nose and unfortunate double chin, stuck a piece of paper into the inside pocket of his jacket. “You got it, Miller. Easy enough to take care of, so don’t lose any sleep over it. We orphans gotta stick together.”
“Always.”
Miller. The boss. Phil sat taller, holding her breath as he turned to look at her.
“Are you here about a position, miss?”
He talked like he was on the radio. His suit draped like he was an actor in a movie. Although old, like her father, he didn’t look defeated and stooped. He looked proud and sharp. Like a fox. A sleek, quick, intelligent little fox. “Yes, sir.” She stood. “I’m Phil Rains.” Was she to hold out her hand like men did?
“I’m Mr. Dreeser. Come into my office, please.”
She followed him. Her breath sounded like she’d just run across the yard, for heaven’s sake. Although she’d washed and changed at the station, she prayed she didn’t smell as bad as she suspected she did.
“What brings you here?” he asked.
“I need a job.”
“Yes, I assumed that, Miss Rains. Why here?”
“I’ve just come from Iowa,” she said. “A little town not far from Des Moines called Albertville.”
“And?” He raised his eyebrows, looking impatient.
“I have a lot of experience sewing. We sewed all our own clothes.”
He nodded, as if nothing she said surprised him. “A farm girl.”
She smiled, trying to appear sophisticated, but her hands were shaking, as was her voice. “Yes, sir.”
“We’ll try you out for a morning. If you’re fast enough, you can come back after lunch.”
“I’ll be fast enough,” she said.
His mouth moved into a smirk. “Can you begin now?”
“Yes. Absolutely, yes.”
He picked up the phone. “Mrs. Kramer will take you to the factory and explain everything. She’s the supervisor.”
**
The factory was arranged in rows, at least a dozen deep and six wide, many women of all shapes and ages sitting in chairs and hunched over sewing machines.
Mrs. Kramer led her to a machine at the end of the first row. Each station had its own table and sewing machine, along with thread and replacement needles. The bodice, skirt, and sleeve pieces of a dress were arranged in stacks.
“Today it’s dresses. Tomorrow might be uniforms for the army. You’ll be responsible for doing good work, no matter what we’re making. Cutters cut them from patterns. You sew them.” She twisted, pointing to a door on the other end of the factory. “When you’ve finished your stack, you take them through there to packaging.”
“May I ask you something?” asked Phil.
“Yep,” said Mrs. Kramer.
“Do you know of any places to live? Like rooms for rent? Cheap?”
She called over to one of the other girls. “Martha, does your building have any rooms for rent?”
Martha, a tall brunette with stooped shoulders and bad teeth, looked up and shrugged. “They got rooms, but they ain’t nice. About all we can afford, though. You can follow me home later.”
“All right. Thanks,” said Phil.
“Don’t mention it,” said Martha, before she hunched over her sewing machine.
After Phil’s shift ended, she walked with Martha over several blocks to a building that leaned slightly to the right. “Suffered some damage in one of our minor earthquakes ten years ago or so. It looks like it might tumble at any minute, but it’s lasted this long, so I figure we’re fine. Come on. I’ll take you to the landlord. Goes by Mrs. Beale. She’s mean as the day is long, so don’t cross her.” With that, she disappeared down the hallway.
Mrs. Beale, bony and angular with uneven features that seemed as lopsided as the building she ran, opened the door almost immediately when Phil knocked. “What you want?” She lurched close to Phil’s face, her breath acidic. It took Phil a moment to realize it was booze. Once, Eddie and Ivan had come across a bottle of moonshine in the woods, presumably from one of the illegal distilleries, and had sampled a drink or two, much to Phil’s horror. If her father had caught them, they would have been beaten within an inch of their lives. Fortunately, their indiscretion was not discovered, but their breath had smelled like Mrs. Beale’s.
“I’m looking for a room to rent,” said Phil.
“You got money?”
“Yes. And I have a job at Bennett textiles.”
A sour look crossed the Mrs. Beale’s face. For a split second, Phil thought she might spit. Instead she backed away, reaching for a set of keys hanging on the wall. “I got one. Just vacated today, so you’re in luck.”
Phil followed her up a flight of stairs and down a narrow hallway. Everything was narrow here compared to home. Mrs. Beale threw open the door. “It’s furnished. More luck for you.”
The room was no bigger than a closet with a twin bed, small table, and one chair. It smelled like the attic of their barn: rat droppings and mold. Phil wanted to cry. “Where do we bathe?”
“Shared bath for the floor. From what I hear, it’s best to take a shower at night. Fewer people.”
“How much?”
“Two dollars a week.”
“I’ll take it.”
“No men allowed, you understand?”
“Yes, Mrs. Beale.”
Initially, although fast enough for Mrs. Kramer, she wasn’t as fast as the other girls, but as the weeks turned to months, she matched them and subsequently exceeded their output. Her stomach grew larger and larger. During her off hours she made a dress big enough to cover the growing bump, hoping to keep her pregnancy from the other seamstresses. The work made her back ache, acerbated by her growing midsection. She had no way to cook, so for food she bought a loaf of bread, bologna, and whatever fruit she could find when she received her weekly wages. She stretched this throughout the week, but often went to bed hungry. She worried whether she ate enough to provide for the baby. Each week she set a portion aside to live on after the baby came, hiding it under her the lumpy mattress in her “furnished” apartment.
From time to time, Mr. Dreeser walked through the factory, examining their work. Often he lingered at her station for longer than he did the other girls. She assumed he was checking on her because she was new, making sure the quality was as good as the other girls. In about her eighth month of pregnancy, he asked her to follow him to his office.
His desk was bare except for several stacks of papers, a telephone, and an adding machine. The chair behind his desk creaked when he sat. She stood in front of the desk, unsure what she should do. “Sit, please.”
She reached behind her for the arm of the chair, lowering herself slowly.
“You’re going to have a baby,” he said, his gaze directed at her midsection. “You’ve done well to hide it, but I’m more aware of these things than other men.”
Her cheeks flushed. She began a fervent prayer that this interaction would be over soon. The work at her station was much preferable.
“I have three children of my own.” He laced his fingers together and rested them on his desk. “What do you plan to do once the baby comes?”
“I don’t know.”
“May I ask about the father?”
“My husband died in the war.” The way he’d asked the question, she wondered if he guessed the truth. There was no husband and never had been.
“H
ow old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“You can’t bring the baby here.”
“I know, sir.”
He gazed at her with half-lidded eyes. “You’re beautiful. Arrestingly so. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“I guess.” Eddie had told her that a few times, although he wasn’t one to compliment a woman on a regular basis. “Although, not the arresting part.”
The corners of his mouth twitched.
“There’s no man in your life?”
“No, sir.”
“All right. Back to work you go.”
Dismissed? What had he wanted? She couldn’t imagine why he’d asked her into his office. Perhaps it was to give her the message that she would not be able to come back to work after the baby came?
That night she went home to find her door wide open. Her mattress had been overturned, the stash of money gone. She sat on the floor and cried. What would she do once the baby came? How would she work with a baby? How would they survive?
The next day her water broke, soaking her dress and dripping onto the floor under her chair. The girl next to her, Betty, stopped sewing. “Your waters break?”
Waters? Plural. How many were there? “How did you know?”
“I have four kids.”
“What do I do now?”
Betty scrawled an address on a scrap of paper. “This here’s my mother. She’s birthed a lot of babies. You’ll have to take a taxi to get there. You got money?”
“Enough for fare, I guess.” She had no idea, having never taken a taxi before now.
By this time, Mrs. Kramer had rushed over to ascertain exactly what was unfolding. “Her waters broke,” said Betty.
Mrs. Kramer nodded. “Wondered when that baby was coming. By the looks of you I knew it couldn’t be long.” She pointed toward the door. “Come along, now. I’ll help get you on your way. We don’t want a baby born in here. Mr. Dreeser would not care for that, no.”
Phil arrived at the midwife’s house within fifteen minutes. The midwife, Mrs. Able, took her to the back of the house where there was a double bed and various tubs and pots, apparently what one needed to help a baby come into the world. A horrible pain caused her to double over, panting. The contractions came hard and fast after that and at regular intervals. All good, according to Mrs. Able. She screamed with each contraction, but went through labor quickly, and the baby came out without much trouble. He was small, just under six pounds Mrs. Able said, and facing the right direction. “Slipped right out. Round head, this one. Your milk will come in soon. You’re skinny as can be, though. You need a little meat on your bones or your milk will dry up.”
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