CHAPTER 7

CAUGHT IN THE RIOT

Helen!” Susan screamed, but her voice dissolved into the human sea. Helen was nowhere to be seen. Terror seized Susan. She shook off Russell’s grasp and pressed forward, squeezing between the people in front of her, thankful for once that she was small. Her eyes swung right and left, searching for Helen amid the swirling confusion.

And finally, there was Helen, struggling to stand up in the tide of people. Susan screamed at her again, and this time Helen heard and turned toward Susan, her face etched with fear.

“Give me your hand!” Susan called. Helen pushed a thin arm up through the tangle of legs, and Susan pressed forward, closer, grabbed Helen’s hand, pulled; and there was Russell, too, pulling, and finally Helen was in Susan’s arms. Tears were streaming down their faces. She was holding Helen so tightly she could feel her sister’s warmth against her.

“Come on!” Russell yelled, beckoning toward a break in the crowd. The children pushed toward the gap and forced their way out of the press of people. Fresh air rushed into Susan’s lungs. She could breathe again. She checked Helen over, every inch of her. As soon as Susan was sure Helen was all right, the three hurried away toward the trolley.

Susan looked back only once. The police had finally begun to break up the riot. Some people were being arrested and carried to paddy wagons waiting nearby. Good! The hecklers and rowdies would spend the night in jail. No less than they deserved.

Susan dropped a dime into the trolley’s glass jar, fare for her and Helen, and watched the conductor crank the coin down the transparent chute into the till below. Then she slid into a straw-colored seat next to the window, where she could see the troublemakers being hauled away. The trolley jumped to a start just as the paddy wagons were rumbling by.

But it wasn’t the rowdies being carted off to jail at all! It was the suffragists, still wearing their yellow sashes! Susan couldn’t believe it.

By the time the trolley lurched to a stop at the corner of Eighth Avenue and 26th, the rooflines of Chelsea were stretched tight against a darkening sky. Stores and cars had begun turning on their lights, and the Nabisco factory was blowing its whistle announcing the 6:00 shift change.

At home, the girls found an empty flat. Bea was not home yet from the factory. Susan got Lucy from the Cochrans’, fed her some cornmeal mush, and put her to bed. An hour passed, and Bea still hadn’t come. Anxiety flickered in Susan’s stomach. Where was Bea? Susan reheated the mush for herself and Helen. Helen ate just a few bites before she fell asleep at the table, and Susan could only pick at her own food. She settled Helen in the rocker, then sat at the table and watched the hands of the clock creep to half past eight.

Why didn’t Bea come home?

Now anxiety was gnawing at Susan in earnest. Whispered stories hovered in the back of her mind—stories about workers injured at the factories. The story of the horrible fire at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory only a few years before, when more than a hundred workers had died, trapped in the blazing building.

What if something equally awful had happened to Bea?

At nine o’clock Susan couldn’t stand it any longer. She roused Helen and then went to Russell’s and asked if he would go to the Nabisco factory and check on Bea.

Time inched past. The girls huddled together in Mum’s rocker and watched the clock move to 9:30, 9:45, 10:00.

“Where is she, Susie?” Helen kept asking. Susan just shook her head. If she spoke, she might betray the fear rumbling in her belly. What a time, Susan thought, to be here alone without Mum.

Finally, finally, came the sound of a key turning in the door. Maybe it would be Mum; maybe it would be Bea. Susan didn’t know who she wanted to see more. The knob turned. The door opened, and Bea appeared. Relief washed over Susan, but concern instantly replaced it.

Something was wrong with Bea. She was moving slowly, with the greatest of effort, like old Mrs. Hannish with her rheumatism.

“Bea! What’s wrong?” Helen exclaimed.

Bea claimed to be fine. “I’m sorry to be so late, girls. I hope you didn’t worry. I’m just a bit tired and sore from a long day at work. I’m going straight to bed.” Yet the spark was missing from her voice. She hobbled across the kitchen, not looking to right or left, not speaking, not even noticing Mum’s absence.

Bea’s bedroom door clicked shut.

For a minute Susan and Helen stared at each other, then at Bea’s closed door. “Something’s not right,” Susan whispered. “I’ll try to talk to her.”

Susan tapped on Bea’s door.

“Who is it?”

“Me, Susan.”

Susan thought she heard Bea sigh. “Come in.”

Susan opened the door. Bea was standing, facing her. “What is it, Susan?” Bea’s voice sounded strained, and Susan noticed with a twinge that she hadn’t called Susan “love.”

“Mum’s not home yet. We’re getting worried.”

“I shouldn’t worry about her. Perhaps your aunt needed her to stay a bit longer. Your mum knows I’m here to take care of you girls.”

“I guess you’re right,” Susan said hesitantly. It seemed, though, like Mum would have gotten word to them if she was staying over. Susan stared absently at Bea’s Trafalgar Square photograph on the nightstand. She doubted Aunt Blanche had a telephone, but Mum could telephone from town, couldn’t she, and leave a message for them at Rubenstein’s Drugstore on the corner?

Bea had moved toward the nightstand, and now she reached down and angled the photograph away from Susan’s view. It struck Susan as a rather strange thing to do at the moment. “Was there something else?” Bea asked.

“Yes! Are you all right, Bea? You’re limping.”

“A bit of a sprain I got at work. That’s why I was late. Don’t mention it to anyone, hear me, love? It’s a trifle, really.” She eased herself onto the bed. “If you don’t mind, Susan, I’m terribly tired. Would you shut the door on your way out?”

Susan was stung. Bea had always welcomed her company. Now she was brushing Susan off, as if she was a pesky child. As Susan closed the door, she thought she heard Bea moan. Something was wrong.

Reluctantly, Susan went back to the kitchen. She found Helen asleep in the rocker. She led her to bed and tucked her in beside Lucy, but Susan was too anxious to sleep. Bea seemed to be in pain, and Susan couldn’t do anything to help her. She kept hoping that Mum might still show up this evening. Then Mum could do something about Bea. Susan went back into the kitchen to wait. She sat at the table and tried to read, but her eyes kept swimming. She couldn’t concentrate.

The fire in the stove had died, and the room was growing cold. The flat seemed so empty without Mum …

Susan jerked awake to a knocking at the door.

Mum! She must have forgotten her key!

Susan rushed to the door and flung it open, but it wasn’t Mum. It was Russell.

“Oh, it’s you,” Susan said. Swallowing her disappointment, she turned from the door and slumped in the rocker. “I thought you might be Mum. Bea came home already, Russell, but thanks for going to check on her.”

Russell stepped into the kitchen and grasped Susan’s arm. “You’re not going to believe what I found out.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I went to the Nabisco factory. I found the second-shift foreman. Had a nice long talk with him.”

“That’s grand,” said Susan wearily. “I’m glad you enjoyed meeting the foreman.”

“I did. He was a capital fellow. He had some interesting information.”

“I’m not in the mood for this, Russell. I’m worried.”

“You ought to be.”

Suddenly Russell had Susan’s full attention. “Why?”

“Your boarder’s been lying to you,” he said. “No Beatrice Rutherford has ever worked at the Nabisco factory.”