TUESDAY MORNING,
OCTOBER 3, 1871
- Poppy’s Worst Fear -
It was still dark when Poppy left the goat house and headed toward town. Her stomach grumbled for something to eat. In fact, she was so hungry that she began to wonder if she’d done the right thing by leaving Ma Brennan’s. After all, despite the beatings, at least she had something to eat every day. Where could she go now to stop this awful, empty ache in the pit of her belly? She had no money.
Of course! I’ll get some money from the hiding place behind the rock and have a good breakfast at a real restaurant!
She brushed off bits of hay from her new dress and then straightened out the wrinkles as well as she could. I wish I had a comb, she thought as she drew her fingers through her hair.
Poppy headed up the street toward Conley’s Patch, hoping no one would see her. The eastern sky was lighter now. A rat scurried across her path and she heard someone crying in one of the alleys as she passed by. That morning, when she had awakened in the goat barn, the sounds had been different—the warbling of birds, the sound of wind rustling through the dry meadow grass, Ticktock’s soft bleating. Tonight, when it was really late, she’d go back there. That would be her secret, safe place. But she’d need to be careful so that no one would know she’d been there.
She paused, thinking about her rush to leave that morning. Had she folded the quilt and put it back on the shelf, the way she found it? Had anyone heard her pump water for herself and for Ticktock? When she poured food into Ticktock’s tin basin, it had clattered loudly. She’d need to be more careful from now on.
She reached the empty lot and old foundation. Poppy found the loose stone, stretched her arm into the hole, and pulled out the can where she’d hidden the money. She removed the matchbox carefully, so as not to crack the wax. Then she took one dollar and put the rest back into the can.
After replacing the stone, she returned to the street.
She remembered a small café where they served coffee and breakfast. As she headed up the walkway, she heard the familiar sound of clanging bells, hissing steam, and galloping hooves. She stopped as sweating horses pulling a fire engine clattered by. The engine stopped a little ways up the street, and Poppy could now see fingers of flames sputtering from an old wooden building, casting sparks everywhere. A hot cinder landed on her shoulder. Slap! She brushed it away, searching to see that it hadn’t scorched her new dress.
She crossed to the other side of the street and paused to watch two firemen pumping a water tank on the truck, while another man shot water from a hose onto the burning building.
As black smoke that was swept by the wind blocked her vision, she ran between gusts until she could see the little café where she was headed.
Once inside, she took a seat far away from the window, for fear Ma Brennan or the girls might pass by and see her. When the waitress handed her a menu, she brushed it aside. She couldn’t read anyway, so she asked, “How much for a glass of milk and a dropped egg on toast?”
“Fifteen cents. The milk is fresh—Mrs. O’Leary delivered it this morning.”
“That’s good,” Poppy said with a little sniff, the way she’d heard some of the highfalutin ladies speak. “I can’t abide sourin’ milk.”
Poppy waited, twiddling her thumbs. Some of the customers were reading the newspaper. Others talked about the weather.
“We have a problem with this drought,” one man said, pointing to an article in the morning news. “This town is a tinderbox just waiting for a spark.”
“Between the wooden buildings and the lumberyards, Chicago would be gone in a puff of smoke,” agreed a young man at an adjoining table.
“Nothin’ we can do ’bout it,” his friend said. “Can’t change the weather.”
“They should have thought about fires when they put up all the wooden construction,” the first man argued. “We got lumber mills and sawdust, wooden bridges, wooden houses …”
Even wooden sidewalks, thought Poppy.
A waitress came around to refresh their coffee. “The fire trucks are out near every day. Bob Williams, the fire marshal, told me that there were more than six hundred fires during the past two years.”
The waitress set Poppy’s order in front of her. The toast was cut in quarters, shiny with melting butter. The egg was perfect with the yolk just a little soft. Poppy pierced it with her fork and the yolk dribbled down into the bread. She grabbed a slice of toast eagerly and gobbled it down. After she finished the egg, she slathered the last piece of toast with strawberry preserves from a white covered dish. She ate it slowly this time, enjoying all the thick sweetness and sipping on the fresh, cold milk between bites. How wonderful to be able to buy food at a restaurant! Anything you want—all it takes is money. But the only way Poppy knew how to get money was to steal it.
She watched the men leaving the nearby table. One of them dropped a few pennies onto the tablecloth, as a tip for the waitress. Poppy reached over quickly and slipped the pennies into her own dress pocket. A few minutes later, the waitress came to clean the nearby table and went away with a look of disappointment on her face.
Poppy felt a bit sorry for the waitress but brushed the feeling aside. After all, Poppy had to live, too, especially now that she was away from Ma Brennan’s. She needed to take care of herself.
Poppy wondered how much money she could make if she worked as a waitress. Waitresses made a small salary, she’d heard. But then they got tips—a few cents for themselves from good customers.
“Are you finished?” Poppy looked up as her waitress reached for the empty plate. “Is there anything else?”
“No,” Poppy said. “Thank you.”
The waitress put a tab of paper on the table. Poppy checked the bill. Two figures—a one and a five. That meant fifteen cents, just as she had been told. She took out her dollar to pay at the counter. She paused for a moment, then took the pennies from her pocket and placed them on the table. A tip for her waitress.
After paying her bill, Poppy stepped outside. The sun was shining brightly now. Most of the fire down the street was out, and the black clouds of smoke faded away in the breeze. She found a bench and sat down to be sure she had been given the correct change. It took her a while—she wasn’t used to figuring out sums.
Suddenly she noticed two shadows appear on the ground in front of her. Looking up, she felt her heart drop. Four Fingers Foley and Patrick Cahill were standing before her.
“Where’s your big-shot highfalutin bodyguard?” Fingers asked.
Poppy tucked the money into her pocket and then stood up to leave, but Patrick blocked her way. “Where did ya get the money, Poppy?” He tried to reach into her pocket, but she smacked his hand hard.
“Come on, Poppy,” Fingers said. “We know what you’re up to. You’re makin’ friends with that rich jeweler’s kid. Now we’re here to help you out.”
Poppy frowned. “I don’t need help.”
“Sure you do.” Fingers pushed her down onto the bench. “Let’s talk. You’re plannin’ to cash in on your friendship with the Butterworths. They’ve got money and they own that jewelry store on State Street. Right?”
“Wrong!” Poppy stomped her foot. “I’m not friends with the Butterworths.”
“Well, it looks to me like you’re tryin’ your best to be friends with that pantywaist Justin. Or is it the goat you like?” Patrick laughed. “He’s crazy. He has a stinkin’ goat for a pet.”
“That goat does not stink!” Poppy snapped. “And Justin isn’t crazy.”
Fingers chuckled. “See, Patrick? She does like that Justin kid.”
Once again Poppy tried to get up, and once again Fingers pushed her down. “Now, listen to me. We’re all pals here and we’re willin’ to help you break into the jewelry store. And we’re willin’ to cut the sugar even.”
“Who said I was goin’ to rob the Butterworths?” This time Poppy jostled herself from Fingers and twisted from Patrick’s grasping hands. She tried to bolt off, when she was stopped by a large, imposing figure. Ma Brennan!
“Aw, look who’s here! It’s my own little Poppy, who ran away from her ma last night.” She held Poppy by the shoulders. “Are these boys giving you trouble, dearie?”
A sinking feeling of hopelessness swept over Poppy. She could never get away from Ma Brennan. Right now all she could do was act as if she were sorry—and find out what Ma intended to do.
“They’re scarin’ me, Ma,” Poppy whimpered as Ma put her arms around her. “Make ’em go away.”
“Those no-accounts were threatenin’ you. I heard every word. Don’t worry, Poppy. Ma’s here now and she’s goin’ to protect you.”
The boys backed away as Ma shook her fist at each of them. “Leave my Poppy alone or you’ll disappear one of these nights,” she warned. “Scram! Get outta here!”
Fingers and Patrick took off up the street, and Ma pulled Poppy down onto the bench. “Now, you tell me why you ran away from your ma, who’s loved ya all these years. I scared you last night, but you’ve gotta learn, dearie, that you mustn’t steal from your ma and buy things with her money. It’s not nice.” She put her arms around Poppy. “Let’s let bygones be bygones.”
Poppy knew Ma very well, and she knew Ma only sounded forgiving. But Poppy knew how to pretend, too. “I’m sorry I ran away, Ma. But you scared me. And I really, truly didn’t steal your money to buy this dress. The Butterworths gave it to me.”
“So it’s true, then, that you’re a friend of the Butterworth family? The ones that own the jewelry store?”
“I guess so. I went to see their son Justin’s pet goat.”
“You went to visit a goat?” Ma laughed her toothless smile.
“Yes, and then they invited me to supper and gave me this dress.”
“Well, I have a job for you, Poppy. I want you to stay friends with that Butterworth boy and his folks. Yep. Then I want you to do one simple thing. I want you to get me a key to the Butterworths’ jewelry store. That’s all you have to do.”
So that’s what Ma is after—a key. I’ll never tell her I already have a wax of the key. But how could she do this to the Butterworths, who had been so good to her? Why, she almost felt like a good person herself when she was with them.
“I don’t want to do that, Ma,” Poppy said. “I don’t want to steal from them.”
“Oh, my! Our little Poppy suddenly has that thing they talk about in church: a conscience. Now you’ve got God, too, I suppose.”
“I ain’t never gone to church, as you know. And I don’t know God. But I know one thing. I like them people—the Butterworths. And I ain’t goin’ to steal from them.”
“I didn’t ask you to steal. All you have to do—like I just said—is get me a key or a copy in wax. No one will ever know it was you.” Ma didn’t seem sweet anymore. Her eyes narrowed and she was beginning to sound like her usual mean self.
“I can’t!” Poppy said, getting up from the bench. “And I won’t!”
“Oh, tsk-tsk. That’s too bad. I’d hate to think something bad would happen—maybe to that cute little goat.” Ma grabbed Poppy by the arm, her fingers clutching so tightly that Poppy winced. “Here’s the deal. You do what I say and that little goat will be happy and healthy. If you don’t …” Ma’s face darkened and her voice was icy cold. “I hear goats make a real nice juicy stew.”
Poppy’s stomach turned and she felt as if she might faint. “No! Don’t you touch Ticktock. I’ll do whatever you want, but don’t you lay a finger on her!”