Bowery Girl (14 page)

“I don't think that's how it's spelled.”

“But I was so shocked I'd spelled it, I couldn't do anything but stare at her like a drunk. Should have spit on the woman, I should have, calling me names like that. And I should have told her that her husband had a pickle smaller than my pinkie, and doing him was a huge act of charity. But no—I just stood there wondering who in the hell was shouting and spelling ‘abomination.'

“The priest is standing right behind her, letting her turn me away. Letting me humiliate myself in the first place for having to stand in a food line. But he steps away, he follows me. Gives me a handful of pennies. Tells me to find God and that there's a basket set up all night to take in babies. ‘For those too desperate to keep them.' And you wonder why you and me skip church on Sundays. . . .”

“Thank God the settlement house don't jam that crap down our throats. Makes me want to turn Protestant.”

They wandered the dime museum, stopping a bit at the display of the two-headed calf (stuffed; bought cheap from Barnum's after the Great Fire), and the octopus in a jar. They waited in line at the stereoscope. Above them, a sign read: THE GLORIOUS BRIDGE, EIGHTH WONDER OF THE WORLD. For a penny, a round cylinder whirred before the glass lens, revealing in successive photographs the progress of the new Brooklyn Bridge. Annabelle climbed the steps and leaned into the viewfinder. “It's like I'm watching it be built before my very eyes.”

“Let me see.” Mollie stepped onto the red-carpet platform and pushed Annabelle aside. How quickly the pictures changed; it made her slightly dizzy. Whoever took the photos had set his camera up at one spot, day after day, year after year. On the horizon, Brooklyn sat like a black hulk. The great expanse of river and its incessant water traffic—sloops and barges and ferries—moved back and forth. Then, block by huge stone block, the towers formed, one per shore, until the grand sharp arches soared and pierced the sky. “Here comes the cable,” Mollie said.

“Give me a peek.” Annabelle squeezed next to Mollie. They shared the viewfinder, both getting a blurry look at the suspension cables, spun like so many spider's webs.

“Just behind us,” Mollie whispered.

They watched the New York bridge platform growing forward, evermore forward, so close to meeting the workers building the Brooklyn platform. So close to that moment New York and Brooklyn would dare call themselves friends. The machine shuddered, and the lens went black.

“The bridge,” Annabelle said, with a flounce and a wink at the gentleman waiting in line, “the bridge is going to break in two the first time it's crossed.”

“No, it ain't. That's the grandest thing ever been built. That's what we're walking across come May.” Mollie stepped off the platform and rubbed her eyes.

Annabelle held out her hand to Mollie. “Give me another penny.”

“You got the pennies.”

“One more time?”

“All right.”

The gentleman, who had been listening along, shifted his umbrella and bowed. “It's a marvelous thing, that bridge, and I certainly understand why one would want to watch again. So, if you don't mind . . .” He dropped a penny in the machine. It was apparent, by his gaze, that he liked the way Annabelle's breasts lifted from her dress.

Mollie blinked a few times to get her vision straight.
It couldn't be. Not here
. Yet . . . how slim the gentleman was, how his eyes glinted and how he gave her a dancehall wink. How smooth his cheek, how rosy the skin. It was. It was Annie Hindle, male impersonator extraordinaire. This was it, Mollie thought. This was the mark she had dreamed about—a celebrity fast on the town with a load of cash. She could feel it, then, for the first time in months: little stings in the tips of her fingers, the way the racket of the dime museum flattened out to one low sound.

She leaned over the barrier that guarded the whirring machine. “How's it do that? I mean, how's it spinning?” She leaned farther over, trying to locate the mechanism that joined penny to machinery.

“It's a spring,” Annie Hindle said in a voice that purred low. “The penny releases the spring, which spins the carousel. And you see the pictures.”

“Ya don't say.”

The show ended. Annabelle turned from the platform. She gave a woeful look, as if the step down was just too high for a girl to maneuver. She caught the eye of the gentleman (and oh, how embarrassed she'd be later when Mollie told her the truth!), and her cheeks pinked demurely. Annie Hindle lifted a hand to her. Palm up, delicately, as if she'd done it a thousand times before.

Mollie scanned the actress's well-cut coat and trousers. She lifted her right eyebrow, which told Annabelle,
Money's in the left pants pocket.

Annabelle took Annie Hindle's left hand in hers. “You're so kind.” She fluttered her lashes. She gripped tight. The hem of her dress caught briefly under her heel, and she laughed and pulled the fabric.

Perfect. Mollie pushed gently against the roll of money in the clean black trousers. She made an accordion of the pocket lining until the money had no place to go but up and out. She turned back to the stereoscope, as if she'd never moved, too awe-inspired by the concept of a spring.

Annabelle, safely again on the dime-museum floor, tipped her head in decorous thanks. “My husband is—” She pointed vaguely in the direction of nowhere.

“Ah. I see.” Annie Hindle lifted her hat. “It was a pleasure.”

Mollie slid quietly away. Yes, it was a pleasure indeed.

They waited for the “gentleman” to bend to the stereoscope. Annabelle put her arm through Mollie's, and they strolled to the street.

There would be enough money now, and no more rent notices on their door. They'd waited a long time for that kind of mark. Simple and quick and no need for a knife. How perfect. The arrogant smile and outrageous disguise made it easy to take money from those smooth wool trousers. Annie Hindle would not miss it in the least. Annie Hindle might even make a skit out of it, how she'd been duped by a couple of Bowery Girls. Maybe throw in a bit of a song-and-dance about Annabelle Lee and hint at her luscious breasts. Mollie laughed then, at the thought of it.

“What are you laughing like a fool for?”

“Sure was a handsome gent, wasn't he?” Mollie asked.

“Mmm. What eyes. Did you see those eyes? I'd half a mind to kiss him right there, being he was so kind about helping me down. I wouldn't charge him a cent.”

“You might once you saw what he's missing down below.”

“Nothing can be missing on him.”

“Her.”

“What?”

“That there was Annie Hindle. From over at Tony Pastor's. Jesus, Annabelle, you're getting soft.”

Annabelle's cheeks reddened to the color of her dress. “Well, I'll be damned. Just for that he—she—deserved his, I mean her, money taken. Oh, never mind. Let's go get us some oysters and beer.”

“You ever wonder,” Mollie asked, “why Miss DuPre came back here?”

“She's got a good heart, that's what I know.”

“If I had everything in the world, I sure wouldn't share it. Charlie says she was a thief. That means she either hit a jack-pot on a mark, or met some fella low-lifing and tricked him into marrying her. How else do you get from here to there?”

“Hard work.”

“If you're a man. I ain't never seen you or me or her ever owning some business or factory.” Mollie shook her head. “I just want to know, is all.”

“What?”

“Why she thinks what she does helps.”

“I used to ask you to read menus and sign my name for me,” Annabelle said. “You see me asking you for that anymore?”

“No.”

“She's got a good heart, and what she does helps me.”

“I'm just saying.”

“What are you saying, Moll?”

“I'm saying, I'm saying . . . I don't know what I'm saying.”

“No, you don't. She got friends who don't do nothing but buy hats and travel to Europe and kick their maids. And she couldn't do it. Her guardian told her to make something of herself, something . . . what did she say . . . ‘make something better than some sow-eared fat-hipped silver-spooned lady.'”

“Where'd you hear all that?”

“She told us in reading class.”

“In reading class. And all we do is type ‘Dad had a lad.'”

“How come you don't like her?” Annabelle asked.

“Don't like charity workers. You know that. Parade around like they're on a plane higher than you. And she ain't really no better than you or me.” She thought of Emmeline in the Elevated, tempted by a set of shells. “She ain't. Just wants us to believe it.”

“She has a good heart, Moll. Leave it alone.”

They crossed under the tracks of the El, taking to the sidewalk that would lead to Fulton's Fish Market.

“Sure is a handsome fellow, isn't he?” Mollie said.

“Who?”

“Annie Hindle. Miss Annie Hindle.”

“All right already.”

“I hate to say it, but that kinda thing sure as hell beats typewriting. The look on your face alone . . .”

“Mollie, if you don't shut up, I'm gonna take that money you stole straight to the first cop.”

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

“I AIN'T NEVER WORN STAYS this tight before.” Mollie pulled at her waist, but the fabric was so smooth and taut her fingers found no hold at all. She was left to twist around and blow out all her breath for a bit of relief. She gazed at herself in the long window of the settlement house. She did not recognize in the least the figure she saw before her, though her cheeks pinked with pleasure at how good the figure looked. She had chosen a dress of muted teal that dipped to a V near the waist. The bustle was small, Annabelle having made some alterations, and the material draped in simple, straight lines. The buttons were a darker blue, like the East River on a rich spring day. They began as small pearls near her neck, gradually gaining heft and sheen as they descended down her chest. Over the dress she wore a short jacket with a puff of fabric at the shoulders, tapering to clean lines at her wrists. Two fine and deep pockets were hidden at each hip. Mollie placed her hands in each, and twirled before the glass.

She had brushed her hair until it shined. It was parted neatly in the middle, small curls at her ears, a tidy bun at the back. She had even touched a pinkie's worth of Annabelle's paint to her lips.

Yes, she was quite pleased with what she saw. “I would say,” she said to Annabelle, now clad in a dark gray dress and cloak, both of which shimmered in the morning light yet kept her figure hidden in shadows, “I would say I am almost pretty. Pure Bowery Girl.”

“Glad we didn't buy that hat; your head would be too big for it. Haven't I always said ya got natural beauty, Mollie?”

“Well, I don't know about that, but did ya see the green-grocer nod at me? I been used to him glaring at me for years, just because once or twice I borrowed an apple. It's like I got some grand disguise. Kinda like Annie Hindle. I bet a cop would help me across Broadway. I bet you and me could go to the opera and the gents would swoon.”

Mollie signed her name with a flourish. She winked at the matron and said, “Didn't recognize me, did ya?”

 

 

“
O
, capital
L
,
Life and
, capital
L
,
Love
, exclamation point. Capital
O happy throng
, enter, capital
O, Of thoughts
, comma, w
hose only speech is song
, exclamation point.”

Why, today of all days, did Miss DuPre choose to provide a dictation lesson? Mollie felt split in two—one half in her seat, the other lounging in the sun outside the window. Besides, it was Friday, the day Mollie found most interesting when cleaning up the yard.

“Capital
O heart of man
, exclamation point, lowercase
c
,
canst thou not be
, enter, capital
B
,
Blithe as the air is
, comma,
and as free
, question mark.”

Miss DuPre's voice rang through the room. She moved between the rows of desks, one hand holding her skirts, the other fingering the three keys tied to her wrist.

It was Friday. The day people came to find Emmeline DuPre and inquire about money possibly owed or promised.

Mollie knew none had any hold on the Do-Gooder; all were from her old life, and had the rags and shiny elbows to prove it. But they came, nonetheless, sitting first in the vestibule, and when turned away by the matron, snuck into the yard and onto a bench for a rest before shaking a fist at the third-floor window.

Even Jip had shambled his way down from the Ragpickers' Lot—and when asked his connection to the settlement house, proudly gave the name “Mollie Flynn.” Such went the chatter of the ward, for Mollie had told no one she came here, yet someone somewhere knew.

Click clack clatter ding
. Charlie's face was red. He leaned over to read off Mollie's paper. “She talks too fast.”

“It's Longfellow, for Jesus and Mary's sake. Don't ya know it already?”

“Can't say it's familiar. . . .”

“It's boring.”

“
What
is boring, Miss Flynn?”

The clack and clatter stopped. Fingers floated in the air above keyboards, curious eyes turned to Mollie. Miss DuPre lightly tapped her keys against her skirt.

“I'm sorry?” Mollie said. “You were talking to me?”

“What is boring?”