Speak Through the Wind

by Allison K. Pittman

  Ben shouldered her right back and handed the cabbie a substantial amount of cash and coin while taking the bundle from him in one smooth gesture.

  The tavern was far from empty, but not a sound emitted from any of the people gathered there when Ben pushed through the front door and walked in with a sullen Kassandra lagging behind.

  “Hallo, everyone,” Ben said, oblivious to their gaped-mouth silence.

  He walked straight through the tavern and out its back door. Kassandra followed into the horrid back room to the stairs, her eyes long accustomed to making a way through this darkness. She followed close behind Ben, her legs threatening to keep her from taking even one more step.

  Ben stopped just short of the second-floor landing, and she collided with him in the utter darkness.

  “I just want you to know, Kassie … I want you to know that I forgive you. For the baby.”

  It was the first he’d spoken about their child, and so shocked was she, she was unable to say anything in return.

  Ben sighed and climbed on.

  When they reached the second-floor landing, Kassandra reached round the corner to find the railing to guide her up to the third floor, but Ben’s voice stopped her once again.

  “No, Kassie.”

  She felt his hand grip hers, and he led her down the second-floor hallway—past girls who stood in their open doorways, whispering as she walked by. He took her three doors down, right next to Bridget’s room, and opened the door. Inside were a plain iron post bed, a washstand, and a grime-covered window letting in the last of the afternoon light.

  “Ben, you cannot mean—”

  “You’ll always be safe here, love,” he said, not looking at her. “I’ll see to that.”

  He walked over to the bed and put her bundle upon it. The knot gave him a little trouble, but he soon got it loose and untied the rope. Then, in one grand gesture, he took one corner of the quilt and flipped Kassandra’s belongings onto the mattress, sending Clara’s Bible and the silver-handled mirror clattering to the floor. The tiny bird figurine flew across the room, hitting the wall.

  The sound of it caught Ben’s attention, and he stooped to pick it up and brought it over to Kassandra.

  “No harm to it,” he said, grabbing her hand and placing the little statue within it. “Just a bit of a chip.”

  ever take ’em upstairs till you’ve got the money,” Fiona told her. “Because then you’re at their mercy. They can do anything to you. Beat you. Worse.”

  “Not like they can’t anyway,” Bridget said.

  “It’s all different once you’ve got the money,” Fiona insisted. “I can take a smack across the mouth knowin’ the man that give it to me just put a dollar in my pocket.”

  “Dollar?” Bridget scoffed. “You’ve never taken a full dollar off a man in all your days.”

  “What do you know what I take?”

  “I know bloody well what Ben gets from us, and that doesn’t leave you with any dollar.”

  Kassandra listened to this exchange, her eyes bouncing back and forth between the arguing women. They were all gathered in her room on a muggy, early summer morning, nearly a month after Kassandra’s carriage ride home with Ben. Her face must have registered something close to horror, as Fiona abruptly hushed Bridget and gave Kassandra a comforting pat on her arm.

  “This isn’t anything for you to worry about right now,” Fiona said. “You know Ben’ll keep an eye on what goes up to your room.”

  “And leave what for the rest of us, I ask you?”

  Fiona shot Bridget a withering look.

  “I’m just sayin’,” Bridget pressed on, “that she’s up here still playin’ the princess in the tower, and we’ll have to send every decent man up to her—”

  “I will not ask you to send anything,” Kassandra said with an exaggerated air. “In fact, I would rather you keep them all to yourselves.”

  “Be careful what you ask for, girlie,” Bridget said. “Keep yourself shut away like that and you won’t ever get a man fed up to you.”

  “And before you think that’s such a good thing,” Fiona cautioned, “remember, those men are your survival right now. You don’t find a way to get them upstairs and keep them there, you’re goin’ to find yourself back out on that street.”

  It turned out getting men upstairs wasn’t much of a problem after all. Kassandra held no delusions that their attentions were due to her beauty. Many took a good-natured ribbing from their fellow tavern-mates for choosing her over some of the prettier girls trolling the tables. She was popular because she was—or had been—Ben’s, and there was a certain prize attached to towing Ben’s girl upstairs. The problem came once she had the expectant man at her threshold. Often they didn’t get anywhere near her door before Kassandra, with a clipped apology, sent them straight back downstairs to find another girl. True to his word, Ben was her protector, of sorts. Any unwanted customer—and so far they were all unwanted—was firmly led away by one of the ever-present Branagans, who seemed no less attentive, no matter her change in status.

  But that didn’t prepare her for the evening she found Sean on the other side of her door.

  “Miss Kassandra?” he said, with every measure of respect he’d ever used.

  Her door was open, allowing a cross breeze from her open window to cool it from the stifling heat. She was sitting on her floor, elbows resting on the sill, looking out onto the street below when she heard a soft knock on the door frame and the low, familiar voice.

  “Miss Kassandra?” He leaned forward, his dark brown eyes scanning the room. “Can I come in?”

  Kassandra scrambled to her feet and grasped the door’s handle, prepared to slam it straight into the man’s face. “Does Ben know you are here?” she asked.

  “He sent me.”

  As if by direct order, Kassandra backed away, opening the door wide with each step. Sean walked in, ducking his head though the doorway spared him more than an inch. She gave him a wide berth as she shut the door behind him, trying to ignore the knowing looks of the girls who poked their heads around to see who had been polite enough to knock.

  “You look thin,” Sean said, though he didn’t seem to be looking at her at all. “Are ya feelin’ all right?”

  Kassandra could only imagine what a slatternly figure she cut, the material of her dress thin and soiled after more than a week’s wearing, her hair lank and loose around her face. She tried to summon a reply, but was capable only of a brief nod and a vague gesture to sit down.

  Sean glanced around, as if looking for someplace more proper to sit than her bed and, finding none, perched himself awkwardly on its corner. Kassandra noticed for the first time the sack he carried as he passed it from one hand to the other as he spoke.

  “I can’t tell ya how sorry I am, Miss Kassandra, about what happened. The baby, and then, the other …”

  “You know about that?”

  “I do. And I’d kill ’em all given the chance.”

  “How would you know who to kill?”

  Sean set the sack beside him on the bed and looked straight at Kassandra. “I would kill anyone who hurt you.”

  “Ben has hurt me. Would you kill him?”

  “There’s not a one of us who wouldn’t, given the chance.”

  She laughed at that and, emboldened by this new sense of camaraderie, sat down on the opposite corner of the bed. “So how does he command all of this … this—”

  “Loyalty? I guess since Ben doesn’t really believe any of us’ll rise against him, none of us really believe it, either.”

  Kassandra rewarded him with a smile.

  “He saved my life, you know,” Sean said, his voice so deep it sent tiny rumbling waves through the mattress.

  “He does think of himself as quite the hero.”

  “I was just a kid. Not much younger than him. My da beatin’ the—well, beatin’ me ev’ry day of my life. And Ben just tells me one day, tells me that ain’t no way to live. That a boy can’t gr
ow up if he’s beaten down. Can’t ever be a real man, anyway.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I left. Came here.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I dunno. Nine? Ten? This was just a burned-out lot. Ben’d got some boards from somewhere and built us—me and some other boys joined up with him—a little shelter. No one ever came forward to claim the land, so he built this place.”

  A comfortable silence settled between them as Kassandra envisioned that group of ragged boys building the foundation of Ben’s empire. Soon, though, she became acutely aware of the stifling heat of the room.

  “Let me raise up the window a bit more,” she said, standing to her feet. But she felt her hand clutched in another, stopping her from taking even one step away from the bed.

  “D’ya know why I’m here?” he said.

  The grasp of her fingers in his was enough to compel her to turn around, look up, and be held there by the strength of his gaze.

  “I cannot,” she said.

  “There’s got to be someone, sometime,” he said, inching closer.

  “No, there does not. Ben said I would be safe here.”

  “Yare safe, Miss Kassandra.”

  “He cannot expect—you, you cannot expect—”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier with someone who cares for you?”

  “Ben cared for me.”

  “I’m not Ben.”

  He kissed her then, bending low to capture her mouth when she turned her head to avoid him. His lips were soft, and he moved them gently against hers, inviting her, nudging her to join him in their embrace. But she left her mouth stoic and slack, wishing she’d been allowed to cross the room to the window, that she’d been able to open it wide, that she’d been able to throw herself from it.

  The panic didn’t settle in right away, but welled up with each passing second. A little more as one hand crept around her back. A little more as she was drawn, full against him. A little more as he dropped her hand and wound his fingers through her hair, tugging just enough to lift her face to ease his access, as he plunged in the moment she opened her mouth in protest.

  She was back in that alley. Back, helpless, pinned to the street, rough hands holding her. Men laughing, tearing while she kicked and fought. She wanted to kick now. Wanted to bring her hands up as fists to strike this stranger, to rip her mouth away and scream until there was no breath left within her.

  But she couldn’t find the breath to utter the smallest whimper. Her hands dangled at her side, her legs unable to do more than carry her one small step away Once that was taken, she found the strength for yet another and soon the hand at the small of her back fell away, and she was standing—quite shaken, but standing—alone.

  “Please, go,” she said.

  “Not yet.”

  He took a knife from a leather holster clipped to his belt. Kassandra never took her eyes off its blade as he reached for the sack on the bed and cut through the twine cinching the top. He reached in and produced a small loaf of bread and something else wrapped in white paper.

  “No one’s seen you come out of this room for days. When’s the last time you ate?”

  He unwrapped the white paper to reveal a sliced ham and spread the fare out on the bed. With the same knife he cut the bread into rough chunks, placed a slice of ham between two pieces, and handed the sandwich over to Kassandra.

  “I am fine,” she said, holding the meal at a defiant distance.

  “You’re about to fall over. Sit down.” He lifted the sack to make room on the bed and took two respectable steps away, standing to eat his own sandwich.

  Trying not to appear as ravenous as she was, Kassandra sat down on the mattress and sank her teeth into the soft brown bread. After she finished the sandwich, she went over to the pitcher on her nightstand and poured water into her only cup. After drinking, she refilled the cup and offered it to Sean.

  “No, thank you,” he said, with a rakish smile she’d never seen before. He picked up the sack and reached inside again, bringing out a glass bottle of amber liquid. “D’ya mind if I drink this here?”

  “Not at all,” Kassandra said, wondering if all the men who frequented these rooms were this polite.

  Sean dropped his unfinished food onto the butcher paper and wrapped the lot up before stowing it away in the sack. He uncorked the bottle, raised it to his lips, and took one long, seemingly satisfying sip.

  “This isn’t the swill from downstairs,” he said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “This is pure Irish whiskey.” He took another sip before offering the bottle to her.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Ya sure?”

  Kassandra nodded, never taking her eyes off the bottle as Sean took another long drink. When he was finished, he held the bottle out again. Kassandra reached for it.

  “Maybe just a sip.”

  “Ya sure?” Sean repeated, smiling.

  Kassandra nodded again and took the bottle from his hand. It wasn’t the first liquor she’d ever had. Reverend Joseph had allowed glasses of wine on special occasions, and often treated stomachaches with brandy or gingered ale. Ben was never far from his own whiskey-filled flask and had often cajoled her into taking a sip or two. But nothing compared to what was in this bottle. The effect was immediate as she swallowed it down. Smooth, not burning as she had expected. Her head instantly felt a little lighter and her tongue a little heavier when she spoke.

  “I have not seen you anywhere since—you remember.”

  “I’ve stayed away.”

  “So why are you here today?”

  “It seemed … time.”

  She took another sip. “And did you bring this here hoping to get me drunk?”

  “Not at all, miss.”

  She took another sip. “You didn’t think it would make an easier go of it?”

  He took the bottle from her and took another drink himself. “Easier, yes. But for me, not for you.”

  “What does that mean?” she said, laughing.

  “You can’t know how I feel bein’ here. With you.”

  “How do you feel?” Kassandra asked, a flirtatious spirit taking over her.

  There was a long pause while he seemed to search for the right word. Then he sank down onto the bed and looked up at her rather helplessly. “Scared?”

  Of what? Of me?”

  Sean laughed and raised the bottle to his lips again, but Kassandra intercepted it and took a long drink. She felt the beginnings of protest from the ham and bread below, and while she waited to be sure all was settled, Sean took the bottle back.

  “No, not of you.”

  He bowed his head, and Kassandra found herself fascinated by the perfect, clean plane of it. She had the distinct feeling that the room was shrinking all around her, as if she were being surrounded by cotton batting, and all that seemed in clear focus was the sight of this head and the amplified sound of her own voice.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  When he looked up at her, puzzled, she attempted to steady herself and asked again, “When you shave it. Does it hurt?”

  “No,” he said, running his hand along the top of his head. “Not as long as it’s done right.”

  “Can I touch it?”

  “Of course.”

  She placed her hands on the top of his head. The skin was warm, but not as smooth as she’d imagined, as tiny shoots prickled against her palms.

  “Was it dark?” she asked, a bit surprised at the slurring of her words.

  “Black as sin.”

  She was drawn to that head, somehow, and before she fully realized what she was doing, Kassandra leaned forward and planted a slight kiss right on top of it. She felt his sharp intake of breath and stood there, her lips soft against his scalp, savoring this new sensation. Power. The room and the world had gotten so much smaller in the last few minutes. If there were fears out there, they were pushed aside by the ever-growing fog inside her own head—the same fog that was slowly
dissolving the hardness inside her.

  She moved her hands to the side of his face and tilted it back to look up at her.

  “Tell me, Sean. One more time. Did Ben really send you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “What would he think, seeing the two of us here like this?”

  Sean grasped her hands and kissed each palm. “Part of me thinks it would kill him.”

  Part of her thought so, too, and the thought of it knocked down the last wall of protest as Sean pulled her to the bed beside him.

  tymie lined the shot glasses along the bar—twenty in all, each full of dark amber whiskey Side by side in the center of the row of glasses stood two frothing mugs of cold beer. A hush fell over the crowd gathered at Mott Street Tavern as Stymie held his hand high above the bar, sending officiating glances to the two figures poised over the first shot glass at each end of the row. At one end, a fellow named Burly Joe, fresh from the docks, still reeking of whatever vile cargo he’d hauled onto shore. At the other, Kassandra, her head just foggy enough to muffle the sound of Stymie’s hand slamming down on the bar and the explosion of voices that accompanied it.

  She reached for the first glass and tossed the drink back, barely feeling the bitter burning of the whiskey slide down her throat. She slammed the empty glass down on the bar with one hand and picked up the next shot with the other—a nifty trick she’d mastered months ago that shaved a second or two off her time. The floorboards buckled a little bit with the sixth shot, and Kassandra grabbed the edge of the bar to steady herself, holding on long enough for Burly Joe to turn and share a laugh with his buddies. She snuck down nine and ten while his back was still turned. Her head was full and ringing, barely registering the last shot, by the time she reached for the beer. After the harshness of the whiskey, it tasted cool and smooth. She tilted her head back and took long, deep swallows, ignoring the spill down her chin. She slammed the mug down in triumph before bringing her arm up to wipe off her face with her sleeve.

  The fellows who had come in with Burly Joe declared they’d been swindled as they handed over money lost betting on their most dedicated drinker.