P.S. — You do also believe Mr. Harting’s threat was just the bravado of an overprotective father?
August 27, 1888.
DEAR AVERY —
I lost Black Bart at a flea market. Who knew coach robbers liked porcelain cats. However, all is not lost. As I write this I am having breakfast in the same café as President Hayes. His term may be long over, as evidenced by his grey beard and cane, but think of the useful fodder I could learn from an ex-Commander-in-Chief.
I must go. Hayes is on the move. Believe it or not, I think he just slipped out without leaving a tip.
Thomas
September 7, 1888.
BEAU —
Your invitation to spend the winter in the Greek Islands is gracious but unnecessary. Stunning creatures are not just found abroad.
Refrain from telling the story about losing the hotel keys on the Lisbon beach, and if you need my assistance in writing a love poem to sweeten a foreign disposition, I am at your disposal. In return, perhaps you could share your knowledge about evasion techniques and disguises. And before you ask, no, the man lurking at my corner is not an irate lover. I believe you have that market cornered.
Safe travels,
Thomas
September 10, 1888.
DEAR HENRY —
While you have spent a month exploring the lush English countryside and promoting your work, Mary and I have enjoyed every possible moment together. Though cautious, we play the role of lovers as we stroll through the city’s tireless park and dine in secluded restaurants. Yet I am not hypnotized by her gaze nor do we quote sonnets in the setting sun. Our enjoyment of each other’s company has blossomed into a mature consideration I believe even you would admire. In fact just yesterday we spent the afternoon on the Lower East Side. As a rule I avoid such ramshackle neighborhoods, particularly in light of my being followed. But in this case, I had no idea what I was missing.
The coach refused to take us all the way into the dilapidated area so Mary led the way through streets shadowed by cheerless buildings listing from rotting beams. Curtains flapped through broken windows; dust swirled around our ankles; and discarded wrappers floated atop a stream of brown liquid as we wound among a tight labyrinth of peddlers selling live chickens and used trinkets from broken carts. Before I got my bearings, Mary turned at a corner showcasing a French bakery. Through a grimy storefront window I saw a baker in a stained shirt rolling dough into flabby balls.
Mary had so far played coy about the purpose of our outing and the jostling crowd and rancid smells darkened my mood. When I stumbled over a plank lying on the walk, I felt a flash of hostility.
“Now that we’re here can you at least tell me why?” I asked. If my tone was brusque Mary gave no indication. Instead she said hello to a woman scurrying past in a torn overcoat then stared ahead with a fixed intensity I found startling.
Mary explained she volunteered as an English tutor for struggling immigrants. She felt a calling to help those tossed aside as used bathwater.
“These brave people came here with hope and a desire to be part of something great, yet they are treated with disgust. We must do better, Thomas. A society is judged by their weakest, not their strongest,” she said with a brief glance in my direction. I agreed in principal but kept my lack of firsthand involvement to myself. Had she looked my way again she would have seen my eyes cast to the ground.
We crossed the street and entered the mouth of a long narrow cul-de-sac. Except for a few scurrying cats, the road was empty. After the overfilled walks I should have delighted in the reprieve, but the sudden solitude had a disheartening effect. The tall buildings seemed to hunch over us, like the bereaved as the coffin is lowered, and distorted shadows from fire escapes made me think of a prison cell.
“We’re helping a family who needs special attention,” Mary said. I thought she would continue but she kicked a rock down the center of the road and asked an odd question. She wanted to know if I had a fondness for children. I suffered a moment of panic and stammered. Mary shook her head.
“There’s the most beautiful little girl you’re going to meet and I just want to be sure you’re comfortable. She’ll need extra attention today.”
My sigh made Mary grin. “Worried I was interested in talking about something else?” she asked.
“Indeed. Men have code for that kind of talk. Time for a bigger carriage or a second study might be useful. We never actually speak the words.”
Mary’s chuckling echoed down the narrow corridor.
After assuring Mary I liked children, she pointed to the second floor of a large apartment house ahead. Our destination was a row of cracked wooden doors above a rusted staircase.
Climbing the stairs was slow, as we had to take care over missing steps. When we reached the landing, Mary took the satchel she had asked me to carry and slung it over her shoulder. She removed her black leather gloves and tucked them away. Then she unpinned her straw bonnet and used the thick navy ribbons to tie the hat to the outside of the bag. Mary then fished out a white muslin cap and put it on, careful to tuck in stray hairs.
Her preparations to teach English seemed a bit strange but I chalked it up to cultural differences and asked if there was anything I should do. Mary shook her head and led me to the last door.
Mary tapped and a petite woman with pale features and dark hair opened the door. “Miss Mary. Vonderful. Vonderful.” The women embraced and kissed each other’s cheeks.
I was then introduced to Mary’s English student, Mrs. Tzekernik. As I bowed, Mrs. Tzekernik grabbed my shoulders, kissed both of my cheeks, and gave me a thorough shake before setting me free and letting us in.
Piles of old clothing atop bare wood furniture cluttered the tiny room. In the dim light I saw a basin filled with grey water, a jagged round table covered with needles and thread, a potbelly stove leaking ash into the room, and a tan sheet strung from the ceiling. As it flapped back and forth, I saw another area with a mattress on the floor.
Across from the sparse kitchen was a narrow bed occupied by a young girl with ginger-colored pigtails. She sat propped up by a wad of rolled sheets and covered with a stained quilt. Though a bit pale, when she saw Mary, a bright smile plumped her cheeks and she tossed aside her book.
I learned Olenka was nine and learning English at a fantastic pace. Of late she stayed home from school but Mary seemed confident she would soon rejoin her friends. “We can’t keep those freckles away from the boys for too long,” Mary teased.
Mary joined Mrs. Tzekernik in the kitchen and gave her a brisket wrapped in brown paper. Once again the woman seized Mary and hugged her. While the mother busied herself with the meat, Mary washed her hands in a basin by the stove then went to Olenka and sat beside her on the bed. She set her satchel by Olenka’s feet and I waited for her to pull out a reader or perhaps some paper and pens. Expectations are often misleading.
Mrs. Tzekernik set a straight wooden kitchen chair beside Mary then went back to the kitchen. I sat and waited for an explanation.
“Miss Olenka, do you mind if I share what happened with Mr. Gadwell? Or perhaps you would rather tell him yourself,” Mary said.
Olenka seemed eager for me to know her story but deferred to Mary for the retelling. As Mary spoke, the girl eyed me as one would a rabid dog. During my attempt to avert her stare, I noticed the girl’s frail frame looked disproportional beneath the lumpy covers.
“Were you in Boston during the horrible blizzard last March?” Mary asked.
“The Great White Hurricane? Yes. It was horrific. I was trapped in the house with my father for three full days.” Regret struck as soon as the words left my mouth. I started to apologize but Mary turned to me and said in a low voice, “I know you’re nervous, Thomas. It’s okay.” Her compassion and intuition left me speechless, unfortunately not for long.
