Annie's Stories Page 2

  Her face reddened and she pulled at her sleeves. She looked down, seeming to study Kirsten Wagner’s fat letter, which made the other one look malnourished.

  He hesitated, whistling “The Stone outside Dan Murphy’s Door,” a tune he’d learned at the Irish dance where he’d hoped to see her. Some of the girls there had said she attended on occasion.

  She cocked her head to her shoulder. “An Irish tune, and you a true Yankee?”

  He stopped, wondering if he’d offended her. He did not want to scare her off. He’d try something else. “Say, I heard the kids over on Bowery acting out a story—The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. They were pretty good. A lion, a scarecrow, a man made of tin. Have you heard of it?”

  She smiled, her teeth like pearls. “I have, though I’ve not seen a copy myself. I must look for it next time I stop at Bourne’s since so many people recommend it.”

  Good. He’d at least engaged her a bit. “I shall do the same.” Now he didn’t know what else to say. “Well, I suppose I’ll be going now.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Adams.”

  “My pleasure. Always good to see you, Miss Gallagher.” He spun on his heels. “Enjoy!”

  Annie closed the solid wood door carefully and leaned against it a moment, holding the letters to her chest. Since she’d arrived, the only news she’d had was what Father Weldon wrote to Mrs. Hawkins about. She glanced down at the writing that spelled her name and then looked up to see Mrs. Hawkins moving toward her.

  “I thought I heard you talking to the postman. What has he brought?”

  Annie and their boarder Grace McCaffery lovingly referred to the woman as the Hawk because of her keen senses. And here she was to ask questions just as Annie pondered what receiving the letter meant.

  Annie put on a pleasant posture. “Seems your people have been frolicking at Coney Island again.” Annie waved the postcard at her.

  “Oh, bother. My Harold’s sister’s boy and his wife. They spend more time gallivanting than being gainfully employed. Give me that foolish thing.” Mrs. Hawkins snatched the card from Annie’s fingers and examined the drawing of a carousel. “The writing is too small for my eyes. What does it say, love?” She handed it back to Annie.

  “It says, ‘Wish you were here. Love, James and Caroline.’”

  She shook her head. “What else has the postman brought?”

  “A rather large letter for Kirsten Wagner.”

  The woman took both letters from her hands before Annie realized it. “You received a letter from Joseph. I do hope it’s not bad news.”

  “I . . . uh . . . I don’t know, Mrs. Hawkins.”

  The woman patted her arm. “There, there, love. You are a long way from that horrible place, and you have wonderful memories of your father to cherish. Focus on those. You are here now as you should be.” Mrs. Hawkins began straightening her framed botanical prints that lined the walls of the hall.

  Annie smiled, trying to muster the confidence her employer had. She glanced back down at the letter. Perhaps her uncle Neil had died and Father Weldon felt it was his responsibility to let her know. She lifted the thicker piece of mail, pondering whether or not to leave it on the entry table. Annie had been away on errands when Kirsten first arrived at Hawkins House a few days ago. She didn’t know what instructions she had been given. “If I leave Kirsten’s letter on the mail tray, will she know to retrieve it?”

  Mrs. Hawkins pointed toward the silver tray lying on the entry table. Her prized Paul Revere piece, she called it. “I will make sure she knows it’s there, love.”

  Annie retreated to the quiet of her room in the back of the house. The tenants lived upstairs, but she and Mrs. Hawkins had separate rooms at the end of the downstairs hallway near the kitchen, and her room was her sanctuary.

  She stared at the envelope with the postage stamp bearing an image of the British monarch. She opened it and slowly unfolded the letter.

  Dear Annie,

  I hope this letter reaches you posthaste. I want to tell you that your cousin Aileen was married last spring, and sadly her husband, Donald, was lost at sea this summer.

  Oh, my. Annie would not have wished that on the girl, despite what she’d done to Annie. Aileen had gotten married far younger than most, and to suffer this while no more than a teenager?

  Aileen misses you, and so we are sending her to New York on the Teutonic. Please meet her and take charge of her. We are counting on you. Trust me that I saw no alternative. Please inform my sister to expect her.

  Yours truly,

  Fr. Joseph Weldon

  Annie refolded the letter, rubbing her temples with her thumbs. So they had already sent Aileen to America. Aileen, one year younger than Annie, was in Annie’s estimation a mollycoddled, intolerable child. Obviously Donald’s family had not been prosperous enough to take Aileen in. Pity, but Aileen O’Shannon here? After what she had done by pointing a finger at Annie when Annie had been innocent? Uncle Neil had believed his only daughter over the niece he barely knew when Aileen had accused her of carrying on with Johnny Flynn—a complete mistruth that had prompted Neil to send Annie to the nuns. Oh, how Annie had hoped to put that whole chapter in the past.

  Annie opened the letter again and reread it. She had not missed anything. There wasn’t much there. Angry tears burned at the corners of her eyes. The O’Shannons were no more family than the robins pecking at the wee herb garden out back. If they even had hearts, Annie had no place in them.

  The sound of paper crinkling under her fists surprised her, but she gave in to it and wadded the letter into a tight ball. Grabbing the bed warmer on the floor, she opened the lid, tossed the paper in, and drew a match from the tin box bolted on the wall near her door. Her first efforts to strike the match failed, and tears streamed down her face with her frustration. When she finally coaxed a flame, she lit the paper on fire and watched as it sank into a hot ball and then wafted into black ashes.

  When her father had fallen ill, they happened to be near Neil’s farm. Annie had thought there might be some mercy in the man she’d never met. She’d been surprised to discover the O’Shannons had not known she had been born alive. Neil had thought both his sister and her baby had passed away. Annie would later understand why her father had kept the truth from Neil, who had turned out to be a self-serving and pernicious man. Back then, though, Annie had been stunned to discover that Neil and Cora were about to shut Annie and her father out into the cold until Annie’s father offered them what little money he had left. Once Da passed on, Neil had said he had no obligation toward Annie. Why, now, should he expect Annie to feel any duty toward his daughter, especially after the lie her cousin had told?

  Annie squeezed her eyes shut. It must be bad over there for the O’Shannons to resort to this. But truly Annie didn’t know if she could forgive Aileen, that wee impetuous lass.

  Mrs. Hawkins questioned her over dinner. “Tell me about that letter, love. Was it about your relatives?”

  “It was. My cousin’s husband has died.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry, love.” Tears sprang to her eyes and she fingered her silverware. “And her so young. I do hope she has something to remember him by.” The woman continued to stroke the handle of a table knife, one of the belongings she’d kept from her marriage after her husband, Harold, passed on.

  Annie nodded and rose to pour more tea.

  “Was there anything else in the letter?”

  “I am afraid so.”

  “What is it, love?”

  “My cousin Aileen. Father Weldon says to tell you to expect her on board the Teutonic.”

  “She’s coming to live with us? How wonderful for you.”

  Mrs. Hawkins did not understand that this was awful news. Aileen was coming and Annie would be expected to “take charge” of her. However selfish it might be, Annie had planned for her position at Hawkins House to precipitate a new life, away from folks like the O’Shannons.

  Mrs. Hawkins folded her chubby hands on top of the table. “I know what concerns you about this, love.”

  “You do?”

  “Indeed. Aileen reminds you of where your uncle put you, but trust me, nothing of that sort will happen to either one of you girls.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hawkins.” The woman had been kind. Annie reminded herself that Mrs. Hawkins had been forced to take her in because of her brother’s bidding, and therefore could not truly care about her, at least not as much as her father had. He’d said home was in the hearts of those who loved you. Annie had to build her place to belong from scratch, without anyone’s help. And now she would have to ensure that her cousin’s arrival did not thwart her plans.

  Before bed she consulted her account book from the Emigrant Savings Bank, where she deposited the pay Mrs. Hawkins gave her. After four months of saving most of her income, she had $81.54. She tapped a pencil to her lips.

  “You are good with the books,” her da had said.

  She had kept track of all their expenses, and Da had told her when times were rich and when they were lean. He’d said his family left him an estate that he sold before meeting her mother. The earnings had kept Annie and her da on the road, doing what he loved—meeting and greeting folks and entertaining them. By the time Da died, however, he told her there was not much left.

  “There’s not been time to work properly,” he’d complained.

  She’d asked him if the estate funds were depleted, but she never got an answer, as sick as he was. That had to be the truth, though. No couriers came by, no farmers carrying cheques like they’d done in the past. Da had registered his whereabouts on their travels so that their money would find them. They had never been dirt-poor like so many others, not until he got sick.

  She sighed as she thought about it. His inheritance had ru
n dry just as he took his last breath. A man like Marty Gallagher deserved much more. His legacy should be remembered with a memorial or a statue . . . No, something more fitting to a storyteller. A house filled with stories. A magnificent library with a brass plate over the door naming the building after him.

  She’d received her own education from a diverse group of hedge-school masters—those traveling scholars who taught on their own terms rather than conform to the government’s state schools. While the name dated back to a time when the men’s religious affiliation caused them to resort to teaching outdoors under hedges and taking their wages in barter—the way her father essentially had done—Annie and her father were pleased the masters still traveled about and had welcomed her. And her education hadn’t been inadequate, despite what many Irish folks thought about a woman’s limitations. Those roving instructors trained her to read and calculate numbers, and she was pretty good at it. Her da had taught her to love stories and learn from history. Stories had filled Annie’s head and delighted her soul for as long as she could remember. Her love of books and learning had never left her. What might seem impossible in Ireland surely was possible here. Why couldn’t a woman in America establish such a place as a memorial library, so?

  But now she had to earn her own money. She would need a new coat come winter, and she had set aside twenty cents a week for that expense. Some of the Irish lasses she’d met told her to buy her coat on time and make regular payments, but she would not do that. Her da had taught her to pay in full when she purchased anything, and to owe no man even a farthing. Just because her savings were accumulating more slowly than she wished was no reason to dismiss that advice. She would not rent the building that would bear her father’s name because then she’d be at the mercy of a landlord. She would purchase her own property. She had been considering something like this for some time, even though she’d discovered she needed a minimum of one thousand dollars for a proper-sized structure. In just over four years she would have enough, but could she endure Aileen for that long?

  3

  A FEW DAYS LATER Annie noted the new boarder’s letter still lying on the silver tray.

  “She comes home from work so late I’ve not had the opportunity to tell her about it,” Mrs. Hawkins said. “But thank you for bringing it to my attention because she is home at the moment.” Mrs. Hawkins moved toward the kitchen, her black heels clicking on the floorboards. She paused and returned to Annie. “Written in English, wasn’t it?”

  Annie glanced at the mail. “Truly. Our postman is as American as President McKinley and wouldn’t have delivered it otherwise.”

  The woman winked at her. “Oh, but he is much more handsome, wouldn’t you say, love?”

  “I . . . uh . . . well . . .”

  Agnes Hawkins closed her eyes, pursed her lips, and shook her head. Then she asked for the letter, which Annie handed her. The woman turned it over and smoothed the paper with her thumb. She held it toward the light coming in from the kitchen window. “I’m thinking that the whole thing might be in English, and I would be surprised if our Kirsten could read it. The country folks in Germany must be more educated than I realized.”

  Annie felt her mouth drop open. “I’m not going to open it to find out.”

  Someone coughed from the back stairs.

  Unsure how long Kirsten had been observing them, Annie tried to obscure the fact that they had been nosy by collecting the letter from Mrs. Hawkins and handing it to the petite German girl. The thin blonde with the hard-consonant dialect of the Germans, with no apology for her illiteracy, pushed it back toward Annie. “I cannot read it. You will tell me what it says, ja?”

  Mrs. Hawkins folded her hands in front of her. “We don’t mean to pry, love. Just surprised someone would write to you in English.”

  “You do not pry.” She gave her wee head a dismissive shake. “My brother wrote it, Mrs. Hawkins. I never learned to read, in German or any other language. He went to school and learned English. He probably thought someone would read it to me.” She shrugged her shoulders.

  Annie could not contain her curiosity. She had not yet had the opportunity to learn more about this girl. “Where did you learn to speak English?”

  Kirsten licked her thin lips. “I learned . . . My father thought I should know. He knew only a few words and although he did not believe his daughter should go to school, he thought I would one day emigrate. Things in my country . . . the times are hard. So he sent me to work at our neighbor’s farm. The neighbor’s wife, when . . . als ein kleines Mädchen . . . uh . . . a little girl, lived in America. She was sent back to marry and stayed, but she teach me, ja?”

  Annie nodded to show she understood. “There are schools for immigrants, at night. You could learn to read.”

  Kirsten shook her head. “I work now.”

  “And your brother? He is in Germany?” Annie asked.

  “Uh, nein. He is in America.”

  Mrs. Hawkins, seeming to want to rescue Kirsten, who still struggled a bit with the English language, held up a finger to interrupt. “He is working far upstate, Annie. Helping with the construction in the state capital, didn’t you say, Kirsten?”

  The girl bobbed her blonde head.

  Kirsten was just the kind of lass Annie hoped to help with her new library—someone alone and needing skills, especially the ability to read. Even though it did not seem she wanted any help beyond having her letters read to her, Annie hoped she’d be interested later.

  From the front parlor the mantel clock struck four. Mrs. Hawkins shooed the girls toward it. “Go on and read it, Annie.”

  When they entered the large room where they spent their leisure time and entertained guests, Annie watched as the new girl moved to the edge of an upholstered chair like a down feather on a breeze. She seemed so weightless a brisk north wind might have blown her off her feet. As sad as this girl seemed, Annie couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened to her before she came to live with them. Had the darkness threatened to swallow her as well?

  Annie chose the sofa in direct line with the chair and slid a fingernail underneath the seal on the letter.

  Kirsten narrowed her crystal-blue eyes in Annie’s direction. “It is from Jonas, ja? Does it say from Jonas?”

  Annie laid the letter in her lap. “Are you sure you want me to read this to you?”

  “I would not trouble you, Annie Gallagher, if it were not necessary. Please, go on.”

  “If you would, just call me Annie.”

  “Ja.” The girl lifted her chin in Annie’s direction.

  Annie directed her gaze to the bottom of the paper. Your loving brother, Jonas. “Aye, ’tis from your brother, Jonas.”

  Kirsten sat straighter. “I knew it was so. Gut, gut.” Her balled fists resting in her lap seemed to suggest she wasn’t as pleased as she tried to sound. “Please read, Annie.”

  Annie inhaled and began.

  “Dear Kirstie,

  Your brother has been busy. I miss you, but I am happy you are in a comfortable place. No matter how hard I work pounding nails into lumber beams all day, I will never forget to pray for you and wish you well.”

  Annie swallowed hard before taking a breath to continue. They were only words on paper, true, but a rush of warmth ran up Annie’s neck to her chin as she stared at the script. These words were not meant for her, yet they touched her deeply. So kind, so gentle, reminding her of her father. Kirsten was loved. The tongue is never too far away from the heart’s intentions. Words reveal the character of a man.

  Annie cleared her throat as though a tickle had interrupted her. Then she continued.

  “Please let me know you are settled in safely. I do hope my contacts did not lead you astray and that this boardinghouse is taking good care of you.”

  Annie glanced up to see Mrs. Hawkins standing in the doorway.

  “Jonas found Mrs. Hawkins’s place for me, and I’m working until we can be together again,” Kirsten explained. She turned toward Mrs. Hawkins. “He inquired and found the minister of your church, ja?”

  “That’s correct, love. Reverend Clarke recommended us. I will get us some tea. You go on.”