Bowery Girl (15 page)

“Are we supposed to type that?”

Charlie snorted, then stared at the floor.

“Do you have allergies, Mr. White?”

“Um, no, ma'am, I think I'm coming down with Mr. Dunlap's cold. And I wish him well and hope he comes back soon. But I'm grateful to you for continuing to continue on.”

“What is boring, Miss Flynn?” She stared across the classroom, her keys still tapping.

Jesus, this woman let nothing go. Mollie leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. She felt heat rise on her chest and neck and up into her cheeks. She hated to be stared at. All Mollie had done was whisper to Charlie. Mr. Dunlap wouldn't have cared. But perhaps Miss DuPre was getting back at her. One card topping another. Mollie had caught her at her game; now Miss DuPre wanted to make very sure that she was in charge.

“Are you going to answer the question, so we can complete the lesson and move on?”

“Well, see, it's like this: It's a simple poem with simple short words, and we're already pretty good in here about capitals and exclamation points and such. If you're gonna do Longfellow, why not something more challenging? I mean, it's hot in here. We're gonna all be asleep if we have to keep typing that out.
O Life and Love! O happy throng
. Enter. Blah blah blah.”

“I see. ‘A Day of Sunshine' bores you. Perhaps you can share a better one? From your vast store of poetry.”

“If you don't mind.” Mollie stood. “And maybe you can take my seat and I can stand up there.”

The floor creaked under Emmeline's foot. Now all eyes were upon her.

“I wager you know how to type, Miss DuPre.” Mollie smiled.

They passed each other in the narrow space between the seats; Miss DuPre's skirts were a deep blue, in a tone quite similar to Mollie's. Miss DuPre smoothed the hair at the side of her head; Mollie's own hand raised to do the same. The Do-Gooder settled in Mollie's seat.

Everyone watched her. All fingers were ready and waiting, even Miss DuPre's.

“Proceed, Miss Flynn. . . .”

“Ahem . . .

 

“This is dancehall gibberish.” A woman in the front row—who had once called Mollie “Irish trash”—pursed her lips and crossed her arms.

“I'm sorry. I could recite ‘Why Did They Dig Ma's Grave So Deep.' I know that one. But let's not, as it's too sad, and crying before lunch just does a number on the stomach. I'll just jump to the chorus.”

The woman twisted in her seat. “I said this was ridiculous. She doesn't know any poems. She's just a piece of Irish—”

“You're gonna have ta figure out the punctuation on your own,'cause I ain't never seen this written down. Just used to be something us kids liked to shout on the streets.
Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee—
”

“
Wah wah
what
see
? How am I supposed to type Minnie whatever? I'm going home.”

“Put your purse down, Miss Roth, and don't interrupt me.”

“But—”

“Maybe next week you can bring a poem for dictation.”

“But this is nonsense.”

“
Wah-wah-taysee
,” Miss DuPre said. “Capital
W
,
Wah
, dash,
wah
, dash,
t-a-y-s-e-e
, comma, enter.” She smiled at Mollie. “Continue, Miss Flynn.”

A NIGHT OF STARS

THE YARD WAS QUIET, save for the
sssh
of cigarette paper being burned. Mollie continued to rake. She did not know what to make of the woman who reclined against the edge of a picnic table and smoked a cigarette in a yellowed ivory holder. The woman stroked three feather boas, pink and dusk and graying white. Her dress was not a dress at all, but a silvery nightgown. Her feet, clad in thin brown boots, were crossed at the ankle, tucked under the bench, as if the boots embarrassed her.
Sssh
went the cigarette paper. The woman blew smoke rings, which she watched until they curled and dissipated in the air. She wore fingerless lace gloves; her nails were ringed in black.

“I can tell you this,” Mollie said. “If she ain't come out to greet you, she ain't coming at all.”

“I have the patience of a saint.” The woman patted the bench beside her. Her words lilted with an accent Mollie could not place: part German, part music. “Come sit by me.”

“I got work to do.”

“Come sit by me and I'll tell you a story.” The woman's eyes, lined in dark kohl that showed her age more than hid it, glittered silver. “Come, come. Even charity workers need a break.”

“I ain't a charity worker, I'm just learning how to type.”

“An admirable profession. Marking down words. All those words, all that paper. Where does it go, once read and most likely forgotten? Of course, some words are never forgotten. Shakespeare comes to mind, though I confuse the plays. Hamlet and Ariel and Lear could all be in the same play in my little head. It tends toward confusion anyway.” Her laugh turned into a small cough. “Come and sit. And you can tell your friends you sat by a duchess.”

“A duchess.”

“Set your rake down and sit.”

“All right.” Mollie laid the rake over the trash, to keep it from blowing away. When she sat down, the woman reached out a hand and touched the curl of hair next to Mollie's neck.

“I wore my hair like this as a girl. How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Ah, sixteen. The age for love and grand ideals. I was trapped in my father's castle then. It overlooked the North Sea, where the wind shook and rumbled all the days and nights. I loved the wind. I had a long window of cobalt blue glass that I left open summer and winter. You see, I was in love with the gardener on the estate. I'd watch him from my window, watch how gentle those hands were as they snipped the dead buds off bushes. My God, his heart was bigger than this yard. He took to climbing the wall. He had very strong hands. He would wait until the moon shone on the gray stone, then lift himself up and over the balcony. He was a distraction, for my life was only my room and the hollow halls. And then one day, the Russian Ballet came to the city, and off we went in our carriages. And I fell in love again. So I ran away.”

“What about the gardener?”

“He was nothing compared to the dance.” The woman sighed. “But my mother found me. And promptly tied me to the bed with silken ropes. Prisoner in my own house. The windows remained open, but the gardener did not come anymore. I suppose my mother had found out about that, too.”

A movement came from the window of the reading class. Annabelle waved, then gestured that she would meet Mollie outside.

“I chewed through the ropes. I stood on the balcony and jumped.”

“You
what
?”

“And I flew. Over the lights of Szczecin, which warmed me enough all the way to Moscow.”

“You flew.” Jip was a perfectly normal human being compared to this one.

“I danced with the Russian Ballet. Under an assumed name, which I've shortened to Miss Z., as no one in America has the tongue or intelligence to pronounce it. The ballet was a dream. One dream can change your world forever.”

“Can you fly now?”

“Too fat.”

“Too fat. I see. And how do you know Miss DuPre ?”

“I taught her to be a lady.”

“Was she really a thief ?”

“A thief? My goodness. Did she tell you that?”

“Well, there's rumors going around, and she don't say much except she ‘wants to do something meaningful.' It's like she don't really got no past.”

“Pasts are better imagined than remembered.” Miss Z. pulled a bit of tobacco from between her front teeth and flicked it to the grass.

“Are all of Miss DuPre's old friends like you?”

“How's that?”

“Nuts.”

The door to the yard creaked open. Miss DuPre stood in the frame. “Madame Zwierchoniewska. Come.”

It was the first time Emmeline DuPre had invited someone in.

 

 

Annabelle cut in front of Mollie and walked backwards. She looked like a cat with a canary. “Mollie Flynn's got a suitor.”

“No, I don't.”

Annabelle lifted an eyebrow. “Mollie, you need to
look
. You have no idea what's in front of your face.”

“I look. I see,” Mollie said. “What?”

“Charlie White's coming over. For dinner.”

“Why?”

“He likes ya, Mollie. All afternoon he's saying, ‘You should've seen her, looked better than Miss DuPre herself.'”

“But I don't—”

“He's not Seamus. And he's not Tommy. That's what matters. He's part of our new life. And he's bringing meat.”

 

 

And then there was Charlie White, sitting in the one chair they owned, his hat balanced atop a brown paper sack, his clarinet case on the floor. He sat quite stiffly, as if he were at church and fearful of being smacked for slouching in the house of God.

Mollie stood near the door and found herself not knowing what to do. “Can I take your hat?” Mollie asked.

“It's all right.”

Mollie noticed the brim had been stitched in places with brown thread.

Charlie blinked, his long lashes touching his cheeks. “I brought some meat. From the butcher shop. Had some extra cuts. I thought we might eat.”

“Oh.”

They were quiet. Charlie turned his hat round and round in his lap. Mollie wondered if she could actually rip off her thumb, as hard as she pulled.

“You were swell today. Looked just like the teacher. And more fun.
Wah-wah-taysee
. . .”

“Miss DuPre was mad.”

“No, she wasn't. You're the teacher's pet.”

“No, I'm not.”

“She sees something in you. I do, too.” Then he abruptly got up, and in one stride, stood before the wall that separated the apartment from the Italians. His eyes pored over the newsprint. “This is good. You see this story? It's a serial about a boy who got shanghaied and sent to China. I been reading this story for months. This week, he met a Mongolian king who's got bells hanging from his ears and eyebrows so everyone knows he's coming and can bow accordingly. You been reading this story, too?”

“No. Just that part I pasted on the wall.”

“Well, that's lucky. You got the best part hanging right up there. I've half a mind to read it again. I can fill you in on the rest. You'll be hooked, I swear. I'm not saying you have to, I'm just saying it's a good adventure. I'd like to go to sea someday. Not shanghaied of course, just to see things.” Charlie's face was red as a tomato. Sweat glistened on his upper lip and he looked like it took great strength to breathe. He sat back down in the chair and stared at his shoes.

The lock in the door tumbled and clicked. And on cue, just like Mollie'd seen in the sketches at the Thalia, Annabelle swooped in. Like the character in a play who'd been listening at the peephole. She set a growler of beer on the table and then winked at Charlie. “Welcome to our house of sin.”

He ducked his head in response, and then jumped from the chair, offering it to her. Lord, he was too nice to be believed!

Annabelle plumped onto the bed, and leaned back on her elbows. Her eyes went from Charlie to Mollie and back again. “Anything happen while I was gone?”

“No, Annabelle, it didn't.”

Charlie dug his hand into a pocket. “I brought a couple of potatoes, too. And I thought, later, since it's warm and all, maybe we could go on the roof and I'll play you a bit on the clarinet. I just learned a great tune. Do you know ‘Lila Lily from Leon'?”

“Can't say we do.” Mollie shrugged her shoulders.

 

 

After the meal—and how fine it had been!—the three stood on the roof of the rookery. Behind them, pigeons cooed in their cages, and scratched for the food the old man from the first floor fed them.

“Now, that, see, is Orion.” Charlie pointed to the sky. “You can tell by the brightness of those two stars, see?”

Mollie did not look up; instead, she watched Charlie. How his arms seemed to enfold the sweep of the constellation. How his cheeks reddened when Annabelle brushed against him. He took her hand in his and pointed her finger at the sky. “There.”

Annabelle giggled and simpered. “There's too many up there.”

“It's just a matter of focus. You see it, Mollie?”

“Yeah. I see it.”

“Sailors know the whole sky by heart. That's how they navigate.”

“You want to be a sailor?” Annabelle asked.

“Naw. I'm gonna get myself my own music shop. I'm gonna own three: Yonkers, Brooklyn, and here.”

“Yonkers?”
Mollie asked. “You ever been there?”

“No. Just want three shops. Then I won't be stuck in one all week. I can see different sights. And with the bridge almost done, Brooklyn'll be easy to get to.”