Hidden Truths (3 page)

Rika reached into her apron and rubbed her thumb over a coin
in her pouch. Five cents that could help fulfill her dream: getting out of the
cotton mill and finding a place to call her own, maybe running a seamstress's
shop or a small boarding house. Five cents that could help Jo, buying better
food or a syrup for her cough. She clamped her hand around the coin until it
dug into her skin.

"Hendrika?" Mary-Ann tilted her head. She held out
her hand, fingers cupped around the coins the other women had given for Phoebe.

Sighing, Rika handed over the nickel.

*  *  *

When Rika returned to their room a few minutes later, Jo was
sitting up in bed, slumped against the pillow. Her eyes were closed, and an
unhealthy flush painted her normally pale cheeks.

"Jo?" Rika whispered, then remembered that Jo
wouldn't hear her. She raised her voice and repeated, "Johanna?"

Jo opened her eyes and smiled. She always smiled, but Rika
knew it was a mask. Her friend was suffering. "How was supper?"

"Good." No use telling Jo about Phoebe's accident.
It would upset her and cause another coughing spell. Rika reached into her
apron pocket. "Here. I brought you some bread." The bread's aroma
evoked childhood memories of being forced to leave the warmth of her father's
bakery and walking Boston's frozen streets, peddling her father's wares until
her feet blistered. Back then, she'd dreamed of a better life, of a place where
she belonged and was loved for who she was, not just how much bread she sold.
She shoved the thought away. Love was a childish dream. All she wanted was to
own a home, no matter how small, that no one could take away from her.

Jo took the slice of bread and held it in her hand without
eating. "Thank you."

Rika's gaze fell on Jo's feet hanging over the side of the
bed as if Jo hadn't possessed the strength to take off her boots. Rika sat on
the bed and grasped one foot. Cotton dust colored the worn boots a mousy gray,
and Rika tried to give them a good polish with the edge of her apron.

Groaning, Jo lifted her head. "Don't bother. You won't
get these old things to shine."

Rika gave up, unlaced the boots, and took them off to make
Jo more comfortable. "Want me to help you wash up some?"

"I'll do it in a little while, when I get up to use the
necessary." Jo pulled herself higher up in bed. "For now, I just want
to rest a bit and read my letters."

"Read?" Rika looked at the creased pages and the
battered envelopes in Jo's hands. "You mean recite by heart. Don't you get
tired of reading them over and over again?"

"Tired?" Jo pressed a handkerchief to her lips.
"Never. Listen to this: 'The land here is lush and green, and the air
smells of pine, spring grass, and apple blossoms. I do believe that you will
find it a real healthy climate when you come to live with me.' Doesn't that
sound heavenly? How could I get tired of it?" Her hand with the letter sank
to the bed, and she sighed. "Just one more week until I catch the train
west."

"Then why are you sighing?" Rika asked. It had
sounded like a sigh of resignation, not one of longing. "I thought you
were looking forward to marrying your Philip."

"Hendrika Aaldenberg! You know quite well that his name
is Phineas." This time, a real smile curled the edges of Jo's lips. It was
a game they had often played in the past few months, meant to lift Jo's spirits
and ease Rika's gnawing worries about Jo's health. "Of course I'm looking
forward to going west and becoming his wife. I just wish you would change your
mind and come with me."

The conversation was as old as Rika's pretending not to
remember the name of Jo's future husband, wrapping around them like a worn coat
that comforted with its warmth and familiarity. "Go west and marry a man I
don't even know?" Rika shook her head. An image of Willem flickered
through her. She shivered as she again felt the gaze of his bloodshot eyes
staring at her as if she were a stranger while she helped him to bed. "He
could turn out to be a drunkard or —"

"Or," Jo interrupted and coughed. "Or he
could turn out to be the man of your dreams."

"I haven't dreamed of any man." Rika placed Jo's
boots next to the bed. "But I hope you become real happy with Paul."

Jo held her ribs, this time from laughter, not coughing.
"Phineas."

*  *  *

Rika rolled around and pulled the thin quilt over her ears.
Nights in the boarding house were as noisy as days in the weave room. Jo
coughed and wheezed next to her, and in the other bed, Erma snored more loudly
than Rika's brother and half siblings had ever managed.

With a grunt, Rika turned to face the wall. The lumpy straw
ticking beneath her rustled.

The snoring stopped for a second, then resumed twice as loudly.

Rika wanted to yell. How would she make it through a
fourteen-hour workday without a wink of sleep? She threw her boot across the
room. It thumped against the wall above Erma's head.

At last, the snoring ended.

The popping and chirping in Rika's ears never stopped,
though. Sometimes at night, when everything was quiet, she still heard the
incessant clattering of the looms. If she wasn't careful, she'd end up as hard
of hearing as Jo.

Finally, long after midnight, Jo's coughing ceased, and Rika
fell into an exhausted sleep.

*  *  *

"Hey, Hendrika!"

A hand on her shoulder pulled Rika from sleep. She blinked
open sleep-crusted eyes and stared into the semi-darkness of the room.

Erma stood next to her. The glow of the kerosene lamp
created a halo around her head. "I think this," Erma set one dusty
boot on top of Rika's chest, "belongs to you. And 'cause you were so busy
throwing boots tonight, you and Johanna slept right through the bell. You
better hurry if you want to make it to the mill on time."

"Darn!" Rika shoved back the quilt. The boot
dropped to the floor, and she scrambled after it. Her tired arms and legs
groaned as she struggled into her petticoat. "Jo!" She pulled up her
skirt. "Get up! We can't be late again!"

Jo was still bundled up under the covers. One arm stuck out
beneath the extra blanket she had heaved on top of herself.

"Jo!" Rika gave her a shove.

Jo didn't move.

The slice of bread lay untouched on the trunk next to the
bed. In the low light of the kerosene lamp, Rika caught a glance of a crumpled
handkerchief, dotted with brownish spots and tinged with the gray lint that had
accumulated in Jo's lungs. Hastily, Rika closed the buttons on her bodice and
bent to shake Jo awake.

Her hand gripped a cold shoulder.

The coldness raced up her arm and through the rest of her
body. An icy lump formed in her stomach. "Jo?" she whispered.
"Jo, please!"

No answer.

With trembling fingers, Rika rolled Jo over and stared into
the face that had lost its feverish color. "Oh, no. No, no,
no." Rika pressed both hands to her mouth. "One more week.
Just one more week. Then you get out of here."

Tears burned her eyes. Jo would never start her new life.

She stroked the stiff fingers. They were still clamped
around one of Phineas's letters.

"Hendrika, Jo, come on," Erma called, already
halfway out the door. "If you're late again, you're gonna be fired."

Rika didn't move from the bed. She slid the creased paper
from Jo's hand, folded the letter, and returned it to its envelope.

"
N
O,
MA'AM." THE man behind the counter shook his head. "I can't give you
a refund on this ticket."

"But you don't understand." Rika held out the
ticket. A plume of dark gray coal smoke rose from the locomotive huffing and
puffing its way out of the railroad station. Soot tickled Rika's throat, and
she coughed. "The ticket is valid, and I need the money."

"No refund," he shouted over a whistle blast and
pointed at a small mark stamped on the ticket. "See? You have to either
use the ticket by boarding the train next Friday or let it go to waste."

Rika stared at the square piece of paper in her hand. So
Jo's beau hadn't trusted her not to turn the ticket in for cash.
And why
should he? He doesn't know her from Eve.
Only a fool trusted strangers.

She shoved the ticket into the pocket of her thin wool coat,
nodded a thank-you, and walked away.

What now?
How else could she pay for Jo's funeral?
Her savings and Jo's would cover it, but then how would she continue to pay
rent now that she'd lost her job?

Rika dashed across the street.

A horse let out a startled whinny and veered to the left,
almost colliding with a cart.

"For heaven's sake, pay attention, Miss!" the
driver of the brougham yelled.

"Sorry," Rika mumbled and hurried away. She
stumbled along streets and alleys.

Where to? Erma and Mary-Ann couldn't help. They'd already
given half their wages to Phoebe, the scalped girl. Even if they had money,
Rika doubted they would help. They'd been Jo's friends, not Rika's, and now
that Jo was dead, they wanted to save their money for the living. Everyone had
liked smiling Jo, but Rika knew her own gap-toothed grin didn't warm any
hearts.

Certainly not Mrs. Gillespie's. When Rika reached the
boarding house, her landlady dragged a carpetbag through the front door and set
down a slender box next to it.

Rika trudged up the steps. She squinted at the box with its
familiar purple and green stains.
Mama's box of paints!
Rika glared at
Mrs. Gillespie. "What are you doing? These are my things!"

Mrs. Gillespie dropped Rika's old pair of shoes onto the
box. "The mill is sending over half a dozen Irish girls, and I need the
space."

Trembling, Rika clutched her fingers together. "You
can't just put me out on the street."

"I can't afford to keep you on if you're no longer paying
rent," Mrs. Gillespie said.

Bile crept up Rika's throat. She swallowed. "I'll pay.
Really, I have enough to pay for a month."

"And then what?" Mrs. Gillespie crossed her arms
and peered at Rika from her position on the top stair. "How will you pay
the month after that, now that you lost your place in the mill?"

So she had heard already. Rika's shoulders slouched.

"Good luck, Miss Aaldenberg." The landlady turned
and stepped into the boarding house.

"No, no, no, you can't just —"

The door swung closed between them.

The sound echoed through Rika's mind, and a thousand
panicked thoughts ricocheted through her, leaving behind a hollow feeling in
the pit of her stomach. Her knees gave out. She sank onto the cold stairs, sat
between the carpetbag and the paint box, and cradled her head in her hands.

*  *  *

"Amen." The pastor closed his Bible, nodded at
Rika and the gravediggers who waited nearby, and walked away.

Rika stood alone, staring down into the open grave.
Oh,
Jo. Why is life so unfair sometimes?

When one of the gravediggers cleared his
throat behind her, she gave herself a mental kick. No use lamenting over things
she couldn't change. She said her final good-bye to Jo and left the cemetery.

She wandered Boston's streets, keeping on the lookout for
offers of work or an inexpensive place to stay but finding neither.

In front of her lay the colorful stands and carts of the
market.

Rika clutched the carpetbag to her chest and squeezed past
two men haggling over a fish. The smell of bread and smoked meat made her
stomach growl. She hadn't eaten since yesterday, and market day with its smells
and sights made her head spin. In search of food she could afford, she stepped
around the yardstick of a vendor measuring cloth.

"Crunch bread!" a deep voice called across the
street, trying to be heard over the other peddlers. "Boston buns! Apple
bread fresh from the oven!"

That voice! She knew it.

A shiver raced through her. She ducked behind a stand piled
high with vegetables and peered at the man.

The white apron covered a barrel chest, and the hands
resting on the pushcart were as large as she remembered. Rika's heart
stuttered, then calmed. It couldn't be him. Her father was in his fiftieth
winter, and the man selling breads and pastries seemed younger than Rika.

"Nicolaas," Rika whispered. It had to be him. When
she'd left home six years before, he'd been just a boy, not yet twelve years
old. Now her little brother was all grown up. She craned her neck and let her
gaze slide over the crowd, making sure her father wasn't with Nic.

She blew out a long breath.

He was alone.

Rika hurried across the street.

Nic grinned a welcome. The twinkle in his brown eyes still
reminded her of their mother. "Want a loaf of apple bread? For you, just
two pennies."

"No, thanks, I —"

"Seed bread, then?"

"I don't want any bread. It's —"

His grin turned into their father's angry grimace.
"Then get on your way. I don't hand out charities." He kicked out at
her as if she were a stray dog.

Rika cried out at the sharp pain in her shin. She clutched
her skirt and stared up at Nic. The brown eyes that had once looked at her with
adoration now held only cruel indifference.

"Want more of that?" he asked when she still
didn't run.

So her brother had become a man who kicked people when they
couldn't afford his bread. Rika's chest burned. "If mother could see you
now, she would be ashamed."

"How dare —" He lifted his fist, then stopped and
blinked. "Rika? Hendrika? Is that you?"

Rika nodded but kept her distance. She no longer knew him or
what he was capable of. Six years under their father's tutelage had changed him
from a shy boy into a hard man. To their father, being kind was a sign of
weakness.