The Girls with No Names Page 19

  Talk went the usual way over dinner. Ernesto was anxious to share how he’d pinned down a man who tried to steal a newspaper, and wrestled it out of his hands. After that, Grazia and Alberta jumped in with a story about a factory girl who was forced to urinate on the workroom floor because she wasn’t allowed a bathroom break. It didn’t seem like they knew anything about Renzo and me and I wondered if they weren’t the cause after all.

  “It’s disgusting,” Grazia grumbled. “They lock us in so they can check our purses and make sure we’re not stealing thread.”

  “Last week a girl was docked a day’s wages for a broken needle.” Alberta sawed her meat with her knife. “We need Clara Lemlich to lead another strike.”

  “Don’t cause trouble,” Marie said. “We can’t afford another strike.”

  “There’s only been one!” Grazia cried.

  “That lasted fourteen weeks,” Marie said. “We can’t afford fourteen weeks of no wages.”

  “It’s worth fighting, Mama.” Alberta put her fork down as if she was staging a dinner strike. “We didn’t get union representation, but we got better wages and that’s something.”

  “So, they dock you double for your mistakes and make up for it,” Marie said. “You can’t win.”

  Grazia stabbed her potato and Marie told her to sit up straight and be grateful she had a job.

  I looked over at Mama eating as silently as I was. Unlike the twins, she never complained about the cuts on her hands or docked wages for thread and needle use, which sometimes resulted in her owing money for a week’s work. She wore the same hardened resolve I remembered from the days after she lost a child, the skin under her eyes dark and sunken. I wondered what it would do to her if Renzo’s mother came bursting through the door. I could see her forgiving me, no matter how painful, but Aunt Marie, rubbing her cross with one hand as she ate, was likely to kill me.

  I excused myself with a headache and went to bed early, looking out my window for Renzo’s light across the way. His window was dark. I wrapped myself in the sheet, remembering the touch of his skin and the feel of his wet mouth over mine. I wondered if he was sorry he hadn’t stood up for me, or if confronting his mother was worse than abandoning me. Watching him cower under her made me think that he had no intention of marrying me, while the idea of going on without him made me feel desperate.

  I closed my eyes and tried to empty myself of feeling like I did when Papa left, but the face of that nameless baby we buried together rose up in front of me out of nowhere, and at that very moment a real baby began crying in the tenement above like God was sending me a message, its wail rising into a squall. I rolled onto my side and shoved the pillow over my head. I could still smell Renzo in the bed. I wondered why Mama had never asked about that smell, and it occurred to me that I hadn’t done a very good job of taking care of her. Papa would be disappointed. Tomorrow, I’d tell her she wasn’t to go to the factory anymore. I was fourteen now and I could get my work papers, whether Aunt Marie liked it or not. Getting locked out of a factory bathroom and urinating on the floor seemed a better prospect than being alone in the tenement without Renzo.

  It was still raining when I woke the next morning. Dull light filtered through the murky windows, the air warm and heavy as a damp towel. I didn’t want to move, but Mama wasn’t in bed next to me. Sitting up I saw that the twins’ and Aunt Marie’s bed was empty too and I pulled myself up.

  Still fumbling with a button at the back of my dress, I opened the bedroom door. In the same instant, Ernesto’s ink-stained hand caught me across the face and sent me reeling into the wall. I cried out, my eyes landing on Little Pietro who sat cross-legged on the floor with a grin of amusement on his face. Usually, he was the one who got smacked. Marie paced back and forth in front of the stove, her eyes red, the cross around her neck pressed to her lips, sobs issuing between mumbled prayers. The twins sat at the table staring at me with satisfaction. Next to them sat Renzo’s mother, the very sight of her knocking the breath out of me.

  Then I saw Mama leaning against the front door with our leather bag at her feet.

  “No!” I leapt forward. I hadn’t thought about being sent away. “I’m sorry. It was a mistake. I’ll go to work at the factory. I’ll never see him again.”

  Marie wailed and sank to her knees, burying her face in her skirt while Ernesto slumped into a chair. I could tell that hitting me wasn’t his idea and I was sorry he had to do it.

  Stepping forward, Mama latched onto my forearm, her eyes steely. “You have disgraced this family. My sister will not have you under her roof, and if I had a choice, I would not have you under mine. You have brought me nothing but shame.”

  I no longer felt the sting of Ernesto’s blow as she pulled me out the door and down the narrow stairs through the alley. Mulberry Street became a haze of shapes and sounds and odors with no meaning. Mama’s words, and now her icy silence, sliced open a fresh wound in me. Stumbling behind her straight and unforgiving back, I realized how damning what I had done was. We were on our own now in the city with no one to help us.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Effie

  Mable leaned against the wall in the room above the chapel with her arms crossed, watching Edna fetch embroidery rings from the basket. When I approached her, she said, “Don’t talk to me. Go to the window. I’ll meet you there when I’m good and ready.”

  I did as I was told, watching Dorothea on the rug next to another little girl, their legs sticking straight out as they warmed their feet by the fire. I was worried she might come over, but she only gave a low wave and tucked her hand behind her back.

  Keeping her back to Sister Mary, Mable dragged two chairs over and Edna handed her an embroidery ring with a swatch of fabric, not bothering to include needle or thread.

  Both girls sat smoothing linen over the wooden rings and cinching these into place. “Lean against the window and make like you’re gazing at the stars,” Mable said in a soft voice, her face animated, her blond hair pulled into a thick braid over one shoulder. I was glad to sink into the wall and gaze out at nothing. From behind me I heard Mable’s low voice. “Tomorrow night is the annual Ladies Associates dinner. It’s the best time to make a run for it. The sisters will be distracted and tired, plus they always go to bed early after an event.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. The glint in her eye was the same as my sister’s when she was scheming a daring act of rebellion. “But the room will be locked,” I ventured.

  Edna pitched forward, with her elbows on her knees, and kept her voice low. “I can get a key. I discovered that Sister Gertrude’s not the only one who carries them. I saw Sister Agnes lock the room the other night, and she doesn’t wear her key, which means it’s most likely in her room, and dear, trusting Sister Agnes doesn’t bother to lock hers. I’ll slip out during evening prayer, sneak into her room and hide the key under these beauties.” She grinned and shimmied her chest at me.

  “What if she notices they’re missing?” I asked.

  “We’ll be long gone by then.” Mable leaned forward in the same manner as Edna, their heads close together. “Once we’re out the window onto the chapel roof, it’s a straight drop to the ground. From there we’ll have to run to the wall and find a tree to climb. You can climb, can’t you?” She cocked an eyebrow at me.

  I’d never climbed a tree in my life, but I nodded yes. “Good,” she said. “Once we’re on the other side, we make a run for it. Hopefully it’s a dark night. The sisters will waste no time getting our descriptions to the police. There’s a woman who houses escapees. 961 5th Avenue. Every girl in here’s memorized that address. We just have to get to her before we’re caught. Rich as the devil, I’ve heard, and kind as an angel.”

  “She’s the only one worth praying to, as far as I’m concerned,” said Edna. “I heard her speak at a rally once and I’ll be if she ain’t the most beautiful thing. I heard she em
ploys the girls she can, and helps the others find work. She’ll help you no matter what your story, but most of ’em’s pitiful anyway, especially yours.” Edna slapped Mable’s thigh. “At least I was caught stealing a waffle from a vending cart, drunk off my rocker.” She spat and cocked an eye at me. “Mable here wasn’t even living in New York City when they locked her up. She came for a weekend to visit her aunt and uncle. Isn’t that right, Mable?”

  Mable kicked the leg of Edna’s chair. “Shush up and don’t remind me.”

  “Reminding ourselves is the only way to make sure we don’t forget to hate the opposite sex.” She pumped her fist in the air. “We’ve got to march against them so bastards like Mable’s uncle don’t get away with it. He took the liberty to shove his hands right up under Mable’s skirt. The aunt caught him and he swore Mable lifted her skirt up for him. The aunt screamed at her for being a whore and the lying snake of an uncle dragged Mable off and locked her away to get back into the good graces of his devil wife. Never even got permission from Mable’s father.”

  “I’m sure my father wouldn’t mind a lick,” Mable whistled through her teeth. “They’re all the same. Wouldn’t go home if I could. This rich lady is my only hope, or the streets, which I’d take any day over the sisters of this place. Why’re you in here?” she said suddenly.

  “Yeah,” Edna said. “What’d you do?”

  I thought of telling them the truth. It seemed fitting, as I was about to jump to my possible death with them. But something in me didn’t want to give them my story. “I was caught with a boy,” I said, sticking to the lie I’d told Sister Gertrude.

  “You weren’t selling yourself on the street were you? You look too scrawny for that,” Edna said.

  My face went hot and I shook my head. Selling yourself was a term I’d only recently understood.

  “Ah,” Mable crooned. “You’ve embarrassed her. Lots of girls in here are whores, or drunks. I could tell right away you weren’t neither.” She stood up and dropped her embroidery ring in my lap. “Put this back for me, would you?”

  Edna, always following suit, stood up and dropped her embroidery ring in my lap as well. Linking arms, they sauntered off to join a group of girls gathered around a piano that no one played.

  Lying in bed that night, thinking about escaping out a window into the dark terrified me. It didn’t seem nearly as easy as the first time I’d imagined it. What if I did break an ankle? The consequences of being caught were far too real now. But what choice did I have? I’d given up hope my parents would find me. The oysterman was the only one who knew I was here. Even if my parents had put a notice in the paper, he most likely wouldn’t see it. He didn’t seem the type to waste a good penny on a newspaper. The sisters cared little for news from the outside world. I’d only seen Sister Jane—a small anxious woman who looked as if she questioned her faith on a daily basis—read the paper during our Saturday leisure hour.

  * * *

  The good sister reads the headline from The New York Times, Missing Girl. The name is familiar, but she doesn’t recognize the surname, or the slightly blurred face of the young girl who looks like every other girl around her. She doesn’t read on, turning instead to an article about the suffragette, Mrs. Pankhurst, being held at Ellis Island and threatening a hunger strike if barred from this country. Wondering if the suffragettes might be a more suitable calling for her, Sister Jane twists the paper and tosses it into the fireplace, warming her hands on the flames as they leap up.

  * * *

  This is what I told myself, that my parents had tried to find me and failed. Otherwise nothing made sense.

  I rolled over, summoning the possibility of escape, picturing my parents’ faces as I walked through the door, the shock and weeping. Luella would be there, and we’d fall into each other’s arms crying apologies.

  Dorothea appeared beside my bed, a slip of a figure in her white nightdress. I scooted over and let her slide under my covers, holding her frail hand while I whispered the best story I could think up, full of goblins and secret spells and fairy magic with a glorious, happy ending.

  When I was done I said, “Tomorrow night, I want you to stay in your bed. No matter what happens, you’re not to come in here. Okay?”

  “Why?”

  “Just do as I say.”

  Her eyes filled with doubt, but she nodded obediently and tucked her arm under the blanket, curling up beside me and closing her eyes. I brushed the hair from her sunken cheek, her lids marbled with blue veins, her face tranquil. I thought of all the nights I’d lain listening to Luella’s complaints over her restricted life. What the girls in here wouldn’t give for a life like ours, where sneaking off to a gypsy camp was the height of our danger. True danger was seeing your mother’s face smashed in. True danger was being fondled by an uncle and unjustly locked away. True danger was being gagged and thrown in the basement by Sister Gertrude. True danger was leaping from a second-story window and making a run for it in the dark.

  * * *

  Sunday was the only day we didn’t have laundry duty, and the only day the Chaplain, Reverend Henry Wilson—a paunchy, abject man with roaming eyes and a high-pitched voice—graced us with his presence. His sermons were laborious and dutifully boring. He’d fidget at the pulpit, shifting from foot to foot until the sermon was over, at which point he’d slide his eyes around the room in silence, shaking his head at the hopeless task of redeeming even one of us.

  The remainder of Sundays we spent reading and reciting scripture. There was a break for lunch, more scripture, dinner and finally evening prayer.

  I was shaky with anticipation by the time I slipped into my seat in the chapel. As I repeated the litany of psalms on my transgressions and sins, I was itching to look around for Edna, but kept my eyes down. When we were finally released, I found her mounting the stairs beside me, flashing a triumphant grin. I had the urge to clasp her hand, but imagined she’d fling me into the wall if I dared, so kept my excitement to a quick smile.

  The dormitory was frigid now that it was December. Girls no longer lingered in their underclothes, but jumped directly into bed and changed under their covers with a ruckus of chatter and creaking mattress springs. By the time Sister Mary stood in the doorway flashing the lights on and off to silence us, Edna and I were already in bed with our nightgowns pulled strategically over our dresses. Mable lingered, standing at the foot of her bed, looking around with uncharacteristic apprehension on her face.

  “Stop it,” Edna whispered from her pillow. “You’ll draw attention.”

  “Sister Mary’s blind as a bat. She won’t see me from the doorway.” Mable sat on the foot of her bed, her wool dress sticking out from under her nightgown. “You got the key?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” She lay down on her bed, keeping the covers tossed off. “I hate Sunday. All that kneeling and praying wears me out more than laundry duty. I’m bound to fall asleep, and Edna, you sleep like a log.” She glanced over at me. “Can you be trusted to stay awake?”

  I nodded, so jittery and nervous I couldn’t imagine sleeping.

  “All right then, I’ll just close my eyes for a minute.” She flopped onto her side and pulled a pillow over her head.

  Edna stared at the ceiling. “I’m not falling asleep. Not worth the risk. I’ll be the one caught with the key in the morning if no one wakes up.”

  After a while, despite her effort, Edna’s breath deepened, her mouth went slack and her closed lids fluttered in her dreams. I stayed wide-awake, watching a three-quarter moon peek through a corner of the window. It was a brighter moon than Mable wanted, but I wasn’t worried. Once I dropped on the other side of the wall, I knew exactly which direction to head home through the woods.

  Once the moon reached the center of the window, I slipped out of bed and shook Edna awake. Her eyes flew open and she sat up, wiping a string of drool from the corner of her mout
h. Staggering to her feet she snatched Mable’s pillow from her head and Mable leapt up, bewildered for only a moment before her small, crooked teeth flashed a white grin. Without a word, the three of us shed our nightdresses and stuffed them under our covers, plumping them up to look as shapely as possible.

  Stealing from the room, with Mable hauling a pile of sheets she’d taken from the wardrobe, we edged our way out the door...halting...listening. The only sound was the hiss of steam through vents, and the occasional creak of a wooden floorboard, and then, “Effie?”

  We turned. Dorothea stood in the doorway of the children’s dorm room, her hair tangled on one side. She looked dazed. “Where are you going?” she asked, dejected, as if I was running away from her.

  “Go back,” I said, angrily. She was going to ruin this for all of us. “I told you to stay in your room.”

  “Christ,” Edna swore. “Get rid of her, and make sure she stays quiet.” She headed down the stairs, moving quickly. Mable followed, the sheets billowing and trailing from her arms like disorderly ghosts.

  “Go on,” I said to Dorothea, but she didn’t move. I went over and crouched down as her wide eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry,” I said. “If you’re a good girl and go back to your bed, I’ll try and find your daddy for you, okay?”

  She brightened. “You know my daddy?”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Charles Humphrey.”

  “I’ll find him. Now go back to bed.”

  “Promise?”

  I knew it was unlikely, but I said, “Promise,” and Dorothea kissed my cheek, quick and soft, and then slipped into the dark room, the edge of her white nightgown fading like a ripple on a pond’s surface.