Bowery Girl (16 page)

“Might as well have shops in Buffalo and Philadelphia, too,” Mollie said. “Might as well have one in California.”

“You making fun of me?”

“What? No. I'm only saying—”

“She ain't ever been above Delancey,” Annabelle said, as if that summed everything up.

“Neither have you.”

“Still . . .”

“You ain't never been above Delancey?” Charlie asked. “Never gone to Central Park?”

“I been meaning to. And anyway, you can see the pictures at the dime museum.” Mollie felt like a fool. “We're going to Brooklyn. Soon's we get the money. We even got new names picked out: Mary MacGregor and Sarah Brooks. I don't know why Annabelle likes that name ‘Sarah'—it's plain as anything.”

“But it's my name.”

“If you say so.”

“Why do you need new names?” Charlie looked puzzled.

“'Cause we're gonna have new lives,” Mollie said. “Why else?”

“I don't get it. It's not like that story, where Nick's friend had to change his name because he killed someone. I mean, you didn't kill anyone. . . .That hatpin story was a joke, right?”

“Yes, Charles,” Annabelle said. “We're good working girls. Evil and us don't mix. So why don't you play us that song?”

He unclasped the well-worn case and twisted the clarinet pieces together. He wet the reed and played. The music was full of life. Mollie grabbed Annabelle and twirled her around, until the stars above them spun in circles of white.

THROUGH A GLASS

“
I
CAN'T WALK SO FAST,Moll.”Annabelle dug the heels of her hands into her lower back. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

“Come on, we're late.”

“Good. It'll be ten minutes less I have to sit in a chair.”

“I'm the one who should have a bad back, carrying all these books of yours. You can't sit, you can't stand . . .”

“And I can't walk as fast as you, so slow down.”

“I got a test this morning,” Mollie said. “Full set of keys, three five-minute timings. I got a bet with Charlie that I'll be ten words a minute faster than—what are you looking like that for? Jesus, you're turning green.”

Annabelle stopped. She made a small gesture with her chin for Mollie to look down the sidewalk.

The Boys. Lounging on the steps of a tenement in a neighborhood that wasn't theirs. They hadn't noticed Mollie and Annabelle. Mollie felt she was looking at them behind glass, that they were curiosities to her, just like the two-headed calf and the octopus in a bottle. She watched them fan themselves with their hard bowlers, for the day was beginning to steam. Mugs laughed and wiped his nose. Tommy was telling a story to Seamus and Hugh; he was playing two characters, one who shivered and seemed to cry, the other with a fist and a scowl.

Mollie had not wanted to see them again. She had taken a woman's money at knifepoint; she had paid Tommy off. That was supposed to be that. She and Annabelle had made a point of taking backstreets to the settlement house. They'd stayed as far away as they could from New Bowery and the Growlers. It was only because they were late that they'd taken Roosevelt instead of Chambers.

“Let's go back, Mollie.”

“I got a test.”

“We don't need to go that way, do we? They haven't seen us; let's just turn around. I swear to God, I'm not in the mood for them.”

Mollie scanned across the street. She found a narrow opening between two tenements: It was possible it had access straight through to Chambers. It was also possible it ended at twelve feet of brick. If they turned around, they'd have to take Batavia, and Mollie might miss the test completely. It was an important test. Without passing, you couldn't move into Dictation II.

Seamus pounded his knee and shook his head. But then the pounding slowed, for he had seen Mollie, and even in her new dress, had recognized her. “Mollie . . .”

All their heads turned then. They were very drunk.

“Well, hell in a handbasket, if it ain't the girls.” Hugh O'Dowd bowed, blocking Annabelle and Mollie's path. “Look, it's the girls.”

“Ignore them,” Mollie said.

“Don't you want to say hello to old friends?” Tommy stumbled slightly. He stopped then, flicking dirt from his coat, running a hand over his hair. He looked Annabelle over. “Look how fat ya are, Annabelle.”

“I'm not talking to you,” she said.

Seamus slung his arm over Mollie's shoulders; he weaved back and forth, and shoved them both in the gutter.

“Goddammit, Seamus, look what ya did to my shoes.”

“You fucking him, Mollie girl? Letting some pissant fella up your skirts?”

Mugs blew a few kisses, and Hugh joined him.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Think I don't still check up on you?” Seamus dug his chin into her cheek, rubbing and scraping back and forth. “I came by so many times.”

“Bugger off, Seamus.” She shoved the books in his ribs.

“Jesus, Moll, that hurt.”

“Come on, Annabelle.”

Tommy walked beside them. “Is it mine? Is it mine, you whore?”

“Shut up, Tommy,” Mollie said.

Hugh waddled around them; he'd grown even fatter. “Aw, ya shouldn't call her that, Tommy. It ain't nice. Looks like they've moved up in the world, with those la-de-da dresses. I think you calls girls like that ‘Ladies of the Night.'”

Tommy collided with an ash bin. “If that's mine, I'm taking it.”

“And what would you know what to do with it?” Annabelle spat out.

“Probably the same's you know what to do with it,” Seamus said.

Mugs pushed his way between Mollie and Annabelle, and lay a heavy hand on each of their shoulders. “Let's go get a drink. There's no reason for us all to fight.”

“Where you going?” Tommy asked. His eyes, usually so clear and bright and deadly, were puffy and red.

“None of your business.” Annabelle's lips were pressed tight.

“They's going to school,” Hugh said.

“What for?”

“I swear to God, Mugs, if you don't let go, I'm gonna punch you in the stomach.”

“You wouldn't do that to me, Mollie, would you?” He belched.

“You all stink,” Annabelle said. “And I'm on the verge of puking anyway.”

“Oh, they got airs, these girls do,” Hugh said to Tommy.

“You should miss me, Mollie.” Seamus slid a look at her.

There was nothing there, nothing behind the dark, metallic glaze. No fear, no guilt, nothing. Mollie shuddered. This was the man she'd let lay with her. This was the man who once had asked her to marry him, who danced with her at Lefty's, whose hands could be gentle.

All the way down Cherry Street the boys went. All the way to the steps of the settlement house.

“Don't let anyone fool you, girls,” Tommy said. “Those do-gooders don't give two shits about you. We're your people. We're who you should trust.”

Annabelle held her skirts and walked up the steps, as if she did not see them at all.

“Don't go yet, Moll.” Seamus grabbed her and slobbered a kiss across her cheek.

“Leave me alone.” She pushed him away.

He dug his fingers into her arms. “Don't tell me what to do.”

“She said to leave her alone.” Charlie White knocked Seamus's shoulder. He held a small posy of yellow daisies in his other hand.

“Ah. The pissant faggot.” Seamus spread his feet and put his fists on his hips.

“Come on, Mollie.” Charlie put his hand on her elbow and turned her to the building.

Hugh shoved Charlie to the ground.

The boys started to kick at him. And then a couple of men bounded down the steps, shoving and punching. More joined them from the street, and it was a mess of flying fists and hats crushed under boots.

“What is the meaning of this?” Miss DuPre strode out to the street. “Stop it! Stop!”

Mollie grabbed at Miss DuPre. “You're gonna get hurt.” But she could not hang on, and Miss DuPre landed in the pile.

Mollie knew only one thing to do. At the top of her lungs, she yelled,
“Cops!”
There was just enough time, then, to squeeze in between the men, and drag Miss DuPre out.

Miss DuPre reached into her pocket and pulled out a silver whistle. She blew into it repeatedly; the Growlers ran away, and the students who'd chosen to fight tucked in shirts, wiped their bloody noses, and regained their breath.

She said nothing then, just stared imperiously and waited for every last student to enter the building.

 

 

The air crackled all morning. The classroom doors were propped open, no doubt because the energy in each space would have blown them from their hinges. The typing class took ten timings, each one worse than the last. Mr. Dunlap cancelled the test.

“You got a shiner, Charlie.” Mollie took his paper from him, looked at it, and clucked. “I should've done it for you.” She unrolled her own paper, and walked up to the front to hand them to Mr. Dunlap. There was a hiss from a desk behind her. She turned to the glare of the German bitch. “What'd you say?”

“I said, ‘Irish trash.'”

“What are you, a Danish princess?”

There was a cry from the vestibule. “She bit my baby!”

“I didn't bite him, ya daft bitch, I nipped. He bit my hand. Should be on a rope, he should. I got a bad back—I can't be fending off your monster.”

“Aw, shit,” Mollie said. She ran out of the class and into the vestibule.

Annabelle paced back and forth, sucking at her finger. “I'm the one bleeding. Probably got rabies now. Look, Moll—look at that little screaming monster. Should've been drowned at birth.”

“What did you do?”

“Oh, what I
wanted
to do was—”

“Get upstairs.” Miss DuPre stood on the second-floor landing. She was still as death. She held her hands in fists at her sides; the knuckles were white.

“Me or her?” Annabelle pointed at the woman, who hushed her baby. Mollie noticed the child had a very big head and very little eyes. Maybe Annabelle was right to call it a monster. “I'm sorry. It won't happen—”

“Now, Miss Lee.”

 

 

Mollie paced the far edge of the yard, trying to see into Miss DuPre's office. Two figures, yes, and one with a bent head, but that was all she could make out through the lace curtains.

 

NO SWEARING

NO RUNNING

NO GAMBLING

NO DRINKING

NO KNIVES OR GUNS

 

NO WHISTLING (new)

 

Not one rule about biting babies. Good. No reason then to dismiss Annabelle. And it sounded like self-defense, in a way. All right, she did say “bitch”—but it was entirely possible Miss DuPre had not heard that. And you couldn't kick someone out for one small and first offense.

There was a shatter of glass, then, from the third-story window, and a big book hurtling through the still air, its pages fluttering like wings as it twisted and arced and landed in the yard.

“Jesus, why do bad days always get worse?” Mollie raced across the yard and into the hall. People stood in clumps, and she had to shove and jostle to gain the vestibule.

She caught sight of Annabelle at the front door. Her face was wet with tears. “She's a cruel-hearted bitch, she is.
Bitch
, I tell ya.” She pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “Oh, Moll . . .”

 

 

“What did you say to her?” Mollie demanded.

“She threw a book at me,” Miss DuPre said.

Mollie looked at the jagged glass left in the frame and the position of Emmeline DuPre's office chair. Could have been a direct hit.

Emmeline's arms were crossed tight. She paced the small space between her chair and the oak cabinets. “
Nothing
changes here. You give people opportunity and they squander it and spit on it. Too stupid to see they're the problem. Stuck on a wheel like rats.”

“What did you say to her? Annabelle don't go around throwing things for no reason.”

Emmeline stopped. She crossed to the desk, slid open the top drawer, and pulled from it a cigarette and silver lighter. She lit it and took a long drag; the ember shook slightly. She blew the smoke through her nose. Only then did she look at Mollie. “How much did that dress cost you?”

“Three seventy-five.”

“And Miss Lee's?”

“What does it matter?”

“Where'd you get the money?”

“I thought what we did outside here was of no concern to you.”

“You wore it here. I suppose that makes it my business.”

“And how do you figure that?”

“I figure, Miss Flynn, that you stole the money to get that dress. I figure, Miss Flynn, that you split the stolen money with Miss Lee and she chose to buy a dress. What else did you do? Go to the theater? Gamble a bit at the Rat Pit? Buy a few necklaces and trinkets to make yourself look nice?”

“I paid the rent.”

“Ah, rent, of course. Very responsible of you.” She smoked the cigarette down until it burned her finger, then crushed it in an ashtray on the desk. “When is Annabelle due?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, how many months has she been pregnant, then?”

“I don't know. Seven or eight months.”

“You all shoot yourself in the foot. Every time. And then you blame everyone else for your misery. But there's no one to blame, is there? Only yourself.”