Grace's Pictures (23 page)

“You all right?” Jake appeared at his side like a brownie from a children’s tale. Incredible just how dark it was.

“Fine. Where’d he go?”

Jake spun in all directions. “I dunno. You were right. We were had. We’re nowhere in Dusters territory. Better check your pockets.”

Owen slapped his sides, then slid his fingers into his pocket. Nothing.

He tore off in the direction he thought the man went. His partner’s footsteps echoed behind him. “What the devil?”

By the time Owen got to the nearest streetlamp, the fellow in the loose overcoat was nowhere to be seen. “He took my watch! That hooligan has my watch!”

Jake jogged up next to him, out of breath. “Sorry.”

By the end of the shift Jake and Owen were tired, weary, and without an arrest. They parted ways outside the Old Slip precinct, where they’d been told to go. “Another thrilling night on the beat, huh?” Jake extended his hand.

“So it goes.” Owen gave him a firm handshake and then turned to leave.

“Hey, merry Christmas. Sorry about your watch. You might check the pawnbrokers for it.”

Owen thanked him and set off toward the sanctuary of his apartment. The hollowness of his pocket sent needles of regret through his whole body.

Early Christmas morning Mrs. Hawkins arrived at the Parkers’. Grace let her in the kitchen door. “I would have come last night, love, but Mr. Parker insisted that you had everything under control.” She set a basket down on the kitchen table. “How is the mother?”

“Doctor says she’s weak, but she’s all right.”

“And how are you, love? Tired?”

“Oh, Mrs. Hawkins. I was so frightened. I never helped with a birth before. But the doctor said I did well.”

“Fine, love. I knew you could.”

“You did?”

“Certainly. Sit now. I’ll make us some tea. Where are the children?”

“Still asleep.”

“The baby?”

“I just checked. Asleep in the cradle next to Mrs. Parker’s bed. Mr. Parker slept in his study last night, and he hasn’t yet come out.”

“Fine. Sit, love.”

Grace collapsed on a kitchen stool.

“The services last evening were inspiring. Here it’s your first Christmas in America and you couldn’t be there. Pity. Well, babies don’t care about holidays.”

“So I’ve been told.” Grace was so tired she mumbled, unable to summon much of a response.

Mrs. Hawkins filled the teakettle. “What’s that, love?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“When I had Mr. Parker on the phone last night, he said you had been out somewhere with the oldest girl, Hazel.”

“I was. She got sidetracked looking at a friend’s new doll over on the other street and couldn’t find her way home.”

“Oh, my.” The Hawk returned to the table and sat down. “Remember, love, Mr. Parker doesn’t allow his children out without an adult.”

“I know. I promised him it would not happen again.” Grace leaned on one elbow. “I remembered what you said earlier . . . about who to trust . . . and a policeman helped me look for her.”

“Good for you. Well, that’s all fine now. I know you’ve been working hard here.” She rose and pulled a bundle from her basket. She laid a red checkered napkin on the table and unwrapped two large buttermilk scones. “I have more for the children, love.”

Grace felt a tear slip down her cheek. “So thoughtful of you.”

“There, there, now. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ve insisted Mr. Parker send for his sister. She teaches at a women’s college upstate. Edith is her name. It’s the Christmas holiday, so she can come.”

“You know her?”

“I have not made her acquaintance, but when I pressed Mr. Parker about getting family to help, he told me about her. Odd, since I thought Mrs. Parker had relatives in town.”

“She doesn’t, Mrs. Hawkins. She told me.”

“Well, all the same, this woman will be here later today.”

Grace wanted to tell Mrs. Hawkins that Mr. Parker was not at all the reserved polite churchman she and the reverend thought he was, but she couldn’t summon the strength to start that discussion. Later. They could talk about it later.

The whistle on the kettle blew and Mrs. Hawkins rose to retrieve it.

The noise woke the children, who came lumbering down the stairs. They gasped when they saw a stranger in the kitchen bearing red-wrapped gifts.

“Mrs. Santa Claus,” Linden cried.

“No, just someone to help, love.” Mrs. Hawkins gathered the children to her like a grandmother.

An hour later Mrs. Hawkins said good-bye. “When Mr. Parker’s sister gets here, call Mrs. Jenkins.”

“Your neighbor?”

“Yes. She’ll let me know, and I will have a carriage sent over for you. We’ve cooked a goose, and after you eat with us, you can take a nice, hot bath.”

Grace nearly cried. What a lovely thought.

Later that morning, after getting some sleep, Owen went downstairs to borrow his neighbor’s telephone. Mrs. Karila let him in. “You call doctor?”

“No, my mother, if you don’t mind.”

“Mind? No. But your face. You need doctor.”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Karila. Just some bumps and bruises. Part of the job.”

She frowned. “I have something for that.” She made him wait while she went into the kitchen. She returned with a plate of pickled herring, a dish these transplants from Finland often tried to push on him.

“Thank you. May I use the phone first?”

“Yah, yah.”

He dialed his mother’s exchange.

“Oh, Owen. How did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Your father is in the hospital, Owen. I thought perhaps someone had told you.”

“No, I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas and see how he was. What’s wrong?”

“Doctors aren’t sure. You better go right over to Bellevue. I’m going back there myself shortly.”

21

IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON,
Mrs. Parker came downstairs and reclined on the sofa. Her husband had emerged long enough to kiss the new baby, deliver presents to the other children, and get a scone for himself. Then he returned to his study to read.

The children were remarkably quiet, probably because being allowed to play downstairs had become a rare occurrence and they didn’t want their mother to send them away.

It was past noon on Christmas, but oddly the mistress of the house wanted Grace to decorate.

“I did not have a chance earlier, Grace, but I simply must have some decoration.” She sniffed. “I never had Christmas as a child. And now I always insist on decorations in my own home. Greenery on the mantel, Grace. We simply must have some of the garden inside.” Alice Parker pointed and then slumped back to the sofa. She could do very little in her weakened state.

Grace pruned some of the evergreen bushes outside and placed the cuttings around the parlor. Seemingly satisfied, the woman rose and headed for the stairs.

“Do you need help, ma’am?” Grace moved toward her.

“No!” She paused, looking from Grace to Linden, who sat at Grace’s feet playing with a wooden train. “Carry on. I’m going upstairs to rest.”

Grace returned to her work.

“Miss Gracie, did you get a stocking from Saint Nicholas like we did?” Linden pointed his wee chin toward her as she stood in front of the mantel and rearranged holly branches.

Thankfully their father had thought ahead to provide. He probably feared losing face should anyone find out the Parker children missed Christmas.

“Boys!” Hazel rolled her eyes.

“’Tis fine to ask. I did not, wee lad. Stockings are for children.”

“That’s sad.” He stuck out his lip while he rolled the train engine in a half circle.

“I don’t mind, laddie. We didn’t much celebrate Christmas in Ireland.” She stretched the truth a bit. Some Irish folks would expect visits from Father Christmas, but Grace held few memories of holiday traditions herself. Even before the workhouse, they’d had no time for it. They went to church and roasted whatever portion of lamb their neighbors could spare. Nothing more. But she was not about to tell all that to wee Linden.

At the hour for tea, Edith Milburn, Mr. Parker’s widowed sister, arrived from Albany. Mr. Parker had picked her up from the depot. Dressed in a gray suit, she tugged a red scarf away from her neck. Grace took her coat and scarf and hung them in the hall closet. She already liked this woman who dared to wear Grace’s favorite color.

Grace returned with a tea tray.

“No, no. Let me do that.” She took the tray from Grace’s arms. “I’m here to help and I intend to. I can only imagine how weary you must be, child.”

What a relief—both that her exhaustion was acknowledged
and that this woman did not seem inclined to call her an Irish biddy.

Mrs. Parker, who had not long ago returned from her nap, sat in a rocker by the fire in the parlor, wee Douglas snuggled to her breast. She complained of soreness whenever she moved, so it seemed best for her to rest. Grace had been doing everything for her.

The children gathered at their father’s command and he introduced them to their aunt. Grace wondered why they didn’t already know her. Perhaps Mr. Parker had stayed away from his family because they would know who he truly was.

The woman bent low to speak to the children. “You all will call me Auntie. While your mother is recovering, you come to me if you need anything. I’ve brought books and paints. We’ll get along famously.”

Holly clapped her hands, but Hazel held back. “We have Miss Gracie.”

Auntie Edith put an arm around Grace and squeezed her close. “Of course you do, children, but your nanny needs a rest. She’s going home for a few days. But she’ll be back. Won’t you, Grace?”

“I will.”

Hazel frowned. “What about our Christmas dinner?”

Mr. Parker grunted. Mrs. Parker was silent.

Edith whispered in Grace’s ear. “Do you have anything prepared?”

“In the icebox there is a Christmas goose prepared to roast, cranberries cooked and jelled, and the ingredients for oyster stuffing.”

Edith bobbed her head. “See there, children. We have all
we need. With your cooperation, I’ll finish the meal and we’ll all eat together.”