May 1892 Chicago, Illinois

Mary Agnes lets go of Dutch one day at a time, but it hurts, the letting go, every thought of him a pinprick. Whenever he surfaces in her mind, she tamps thoughts down, no, I can’t think of him that way, not anymore. It is getting easier to push him out of her memory the longer she is in Chicago as most of her waking time is spent working. It is tiresome work, long hours and hard labor. But you never know what a day will bring, what you will find, what you will see.

Today, Mary Agnes encounters two women together, naked in a bathtub, facing each another. She has never thought of being with another woman. Is it immoral? Or not? She excuses herself quickly and moves on to the next room, her head spinning. But all she can think about is being in a tub with Dutch and it takes her by surprise, the way he still holds sway, as if the harder she pushes him away the closer he gets. I cannot think of him this way. No. She shakes her head to set herself straight.

Both she and Helen have Saturday afternoons off now. When they are not shopping—Helen’s favorite pastime, other than gabbing about nothing—they spend their time walking Chicago’s posh neighborhoods and sometimes stopping for tea. It is pleasant out now, crocuses beginning to spring up and temperatures free of winter’s grip. On a particularly beautiful afternoon, balmy for Chicago in May, a flyer catches their eye as they walk past St. Brendan’s Hall on Randolph Street.

SPRING FLING

Saturday, May 16

8 p.m.—Midnight

St. Brendan’s Hall

“Look, Helen.” Mary Agnes points to the flyer. “A dance!”

Helen looks at her with incredulity. “What will people think? Tom dead not a year and a half?”

“’Tis a curse to worry about what other people think, Helen. Plus, I have a new dress, thanks to you, I might add. What would you have me do, play the widow for three years? Five? More? No, it’s been eighteen months and you know how much I love to dance. It’s been far too long. Tom wouldn’t want me moping about.” She remembers The Antlers, dancing with Dutch. Dutch. She shakes her head. Why am I thinking of him? Still? I’ve got to shake him.

IT’S SATURDAY NIGHT, AND WITH IT, crowds. A line has formed on the steps of St. Brendan’s as young people jockey for a place. There are pockets of Irish and Italians and Poles. Mary Agnes runs her hands down her simple green dress. Maybe she should have worn the red and cream one? The one she wore for her birthday just before she and Tom left for Colorado? And the same one she wore to The Antlers? She wishes she had made a different choice, seeing all the elaborate dresses the young women wear tonight.

As they enter the crowded hall, Helen, in a much more provocative dress, leans in toward Mary Agnes. “Watch out for the Poles,” she says. “Mix them up with our boys and we’ll have quite the ballyhooly. Well, of course, there are our boys.” She points to the bar. The air is stale, as if the hall hasn’t been opened in months, or only to pensioners.

Mary Agnes checks her purse. The two dollars she stashed in there earlier this evening are folded in half. With any luck, she’ll still have two dollars when she leaves with all these fellows here. She relaxes her shoulders.

It’s about time I’m back out, no matter what Helen says. I want to have fun tonight. It’s been far too long. Tonight, I will dance!

Young men and women hustle to find tables scattered around the wooden dance floor. Mary Agnes and Helen find a table near the bar, close to where a small band is setting up in the corner.

Helen nudges her. “See Paddy Kelleher over there?” she asks. “With those brothers of his?”

Mary Agnes strains to see the Kelleher brothers lined up at the bar, jostling and laughing. Helen has had her eye on Paddy Kelleher for months now at Mass, although Mary Agnes doesn’t know how Helen can tell one brother apart from the next, all four of them like quadruplets. Or maybe she doesn’t mind which of the four would pay her any mind, although she always uses Paddy’s name.

“I could use a drink,” Helen says. She positions herself so that any of the Kelleher boys might notice her.

And so they should, Mary Agnes thinks. With that gorgeous flaming red hair and plentiful bosom. That beautiful smile and gift of gab. That spunk. It’s a wonder all four of them haven’t lined up yet and started a boxing match over her. They must be blind.

The band warms up and starts in on a lively tune, one Mary Agnes recognizes from the dance at The Antlers. Before the first few bars have played, a handsome young man about her height dressed in a natty suit and tie with a handkerchief in his pocket approaches their table. He’s got a swagger.

Mary Agnes feels an unfamiliar stirring and realizes she is eager to meet a young man. To have a conversation. To dance.

New beginnings, Tom would say. But this one isn’t headed for me. He is sure to be coming for Helen—bright face, beautiful hair, and that dress!

The young man approaches Mary Agnes, his back to Helen. “Ronan Rooney,” he says in a tamed brogue. “But everyone calls me Rooster.”

“Irish.” Mary Agnes extends her hand.

“Irish?”

“Too many Marys. And this is my cousin, Helen.”

“Delighted,” he says. He turns to Helen. “I hope you don’t mind I’m asking your cousin here for a dance.” He smiles to reveal slightly yellowed teeth. “Well, Irish, how’s about it?”

Mary Agnes takes Rooster’s outstretched hand, nods to Helen, and follows him to the dance floor. And still not a Kelleher brother in sight. They have disappeared from the bar. Mary Agnes can feel Helen pout without looking at her.

Rooster’s trim hips sway as he turns and gathers Mary Agnes in his arms. He is a better dancer than Tom and Dutch and anyone else she has ever taken to a dance floor with. They do the two-step and the cakewalk, followed by a fast-paced waltz. By the time the third dance is over, she is glistening with perspiration.

“Thirsty?” he asks.

“I am, just.”

“I’ll go for punch. Wait here.”

Mary Agnes sits at the now empty table and licks her lips. They’re dry.

Where is Helen? She scans the dance floor and doesn’t see her. When Rooster returns with punch, she gulps it. A tang burns at the back of her throat. She is sure it is spiked with alcohol. “That was just what I needed. Another?”

Rooster returns to the bar with a second cup of punch and she motions for him to sit. “Tell me about you,” she says, leaning to hear above the din. “I already know you’re a natty dresser and a fine dancer.” Her attention is split between Rooster and wondering what has become of Helen. She is beginning to worry. What if she has taken off with a fast lad?

“What else do you need to know?” Rooster laughs. “Should I start at grammar school?”

She swats at his arm. “Aren’t you the rogue.”

“But if it’s work you’re talking about, I’m a company man. D.F. Willinger’s Hardware Sales. You’ve heard of it? Over on Rucker and Frank? I’m head of accounts now and aim to go higher. One day I’ll be sitting at that fine desk calling the shots. I can see it now.” He spreads his hands wide. “Ronan P. Rooney, President.”

“That’s not far from my boardinghouse.”

“Where?”

Shall I say? Or not? She gulps. “On Halstead.”

“Don’t tell me you’re staying at that radical’s? Hull House?”

“No, although you say that like Jane Addams is someone to avoid. I don’t see it that way. She’s doing more for young women in this city than anyone ever has.”

“Are you a radical, too?”

“I suppose I am.” And glad of it. I’m not thirteen anymore. I work to support myself. And I can make my own decisions now.

After the last dance, a much slower tune where Rooster worked his hand down from her waist to her buttocks, Rooster takes Mary Agnes’s arm as they unfold into the cool, gas-lit street outside the church hall. Couples disperse into the night. She finally spots Helen on the arm of Paddy Kelleher.

See you back at the boardinghouse, Helen mouths to her.

Mary Agnes is unsteady. Is it the heat? The alcohol? Rooster steers her elbow through the crowd and they duck down an alley filled with rotting fish. He backs her against a brick building and pulls her into a deep kiss.

“That’s my girl,” he says.

“Your girl? Since when?” Mary Agnes looks up at Rooster. I am Tom’s girl. But, no . . . not anymore.

“Since just now.”

Rooster’s girl? Is that what I want? No, just a bit of fun, to dance, nothing more.

“I need to get back, Mr. Rooney,” Mary Agnes says. “Doors lock at twelve.”

“I’ll get you back,” Rooster says. He bends to kiss her again, this time caressing her buttocks openly.

“I’ll appeal to your gentlemanly behavior,” she says, more sternly. “Please, I’ve got to get back.”

As they exit the alley, Rooster guides Mary Agnes to the left toward North Clinton Street. She looks back over her shoulder. She’s still unsteady and her head spins. “This isn’t the way.”

“I know a shortcut,” he says. “Trust me.”

Trust you? Trust you?