THIRTY-ONE

Rivka’s steps lagged as she headed downstairs for breakfast Monday morning. The smell of coffee reached her, along with the sound of voices. Aaron, Ada, and Nat, all bustling around getting ready—Nat for school, Ada for work, Aaron for another day of seeking odd jobs. I could go back up. Sit in my room for five minutes, or ten, until they’ve all left. She drew a steadying breath and continued downward.

“—home for supper.” Aaron’s words echoed from the rear of the house, followed by the chunk of the back door closing. One gone, not to be faced until evening. She reached the kitchen and saw Nat gulping dregs from a coffee mug. He set it down, turned to grab his schoolbooks from the table, and caught sight of her. A wary look crossed his face. He snatched the books by their strap, murmured, “’Bye, Mama,” and ducked out in Aaron’s wake.

Ada gave her a cool glance as Rivka moved further into the room. “Coffee’s still hot,” she said as she untied her apron. “Four eggs this morning. We left you one.” She hung the apron on its wall peg, snagged a dinner pail from the counter, and turned toward the door.

“Ada—” Rivka raised a hand, then checked the gesture. “That night at supper, when I—”

“Never mind. It’s done with.” The crispness in Ada’s voice gave the lie to her words. “I can’t be late for work.” She yanked the door open, stepped out, and shut it behind her. Rivka heard her footsteps, light and brisk, going down the back stairs.

There was no point following. A wave of frustration washed over Rivka and she clenched her fists. Aaron and his family would leave Chicago soon. Two weeks, he’d said, definitely before August was out. She had to set things right, mend what her harsh words several days ago had broken. She couldn’t let them go with matters as they were.

A cup of coffee restored her spirits somewhat, as did the egg she boiled and made herself eat. She washed the breakfast dishes and headed toward the front room for her sewing basket. Mending would take up the rest of the morning until it was time for dinner and her English class.

As she neared the parlor door, the flap of the letter box caught her attention. The morning post had arrived. There wasn’t much, she saw when she retrieved it. An advertising circular for women’s shoes; the Chicago Daily Journal, a subscription of Papa’s she couldn’t bring herself to cancel; and a letter. For Nat, she noted, surprised at both the letter and the name. Nat Whittier—not Kelmansky—was scrawled on the white envelope in a clear, bold hand. The return address read E. Hayes, 148 Twelfth Street.

She eyed it with curiosity. Letters rarely came here since her father’s death. One for Nat was even more unusual. Who had sent it? A schoolmate? It must be. She frowned at the envelope, troubled by the surname. Aaron had adopted Nat, she knew. Maybe he hadn’t wanted his classmates to think he was Jewish.

She carried the mail into the parlor and laid it on the side table, then settled in her favorite chair with her sewing basket at her feet. A shirt of Nat’s needed mending. She pulled it from the basket and got to work.

§

She managed to teach her afternoon class while avoiding attention from Moishe and Onkl Jacob, though her relief at this was short lived. A stop at the butcher’s on the way home, to buy a chicken for supper, reminded her yet again how precarious her situation was. When her friend Sisel Klein came forward eagerly to help her, Sisel’s husband ordered his wife away. Lazar Klein stopped short of telling Rivka her custom was no longer welcome, but tended to her order with brusque distaste, as if she carried a disease to which he didn’t wish Sisel exposed. She caught Sisel’s eye before leaving but took no comfort in the regret she saw there. It wasn’t fair that Rivka should be judged by what Aaron had done. Was it fair to judge Aaron and Ada, come to that? Goyische and mulatto or not, Ada was a good person, and they loved each other. And poor Nat, a child caught up in adults’ decisions. We offered them shelter, yet now we treat them like this. How can this be what Hashem wants of us?

Foolish thoughts. Dangerous ones. She forced them from her mind and hurried homeward, walking through her own door with a sense of gratitude. However difficult the rest of the day might be once the others returned, at least she had some refuge here.

Nat came home from school as she was digging young carrots in the garden. She greeted him with a tentative smile. He stood watching her, swinging his books from their strap. Then he gave a brief nod and started up the back steps.

“Nat,” she called as he reached the door. He turned to look at her.

What to say next? She seized on the first thing she could think of. “A letter came for you. It’s on the table in the parlor.”

He looked startled, then murmured, “Thanks,” and went inside.

Well, it was something. She blew out a breath, pulled another carrot from the clinging dirt, and tossed it on the pile.

At supper that evening, Aaron complimented her on the chicken stew, a sign the breach between them was on the mend. Nat was unusually quiet, no stories about who pitched the best ball game at recess or flicked slate chalk at which girl. He pushed his food around on his plate until Ada asked with a worried look, “Something wrong, honey?”

“Just tired is all.” He shoveled a forkful of carrot and onion into his mouth and chewed with gusto, then sawed at a gravy-soaked chicken leg. Ada watched him, frowning, but said no more.

Afterward, as Ada washed and Rivka dried the dishes, the silence pressed down. Gradually, it dawned on Rivka that the shadows in Ada’s face were more than lingering anger or awkwardness in her presence. Ada looked preoccupied, even anxious. About Nat? About going west? About being here, where hardly anyone looked her in the eye when she ventured out of the house? After her own experience at the butcher shop, Rivka felt the injustice of that more keenly. Finally, she asked, “Is everything all right?”

Brief surprise glimmered in Ada’s face. “Fine.” She dunked forks into the dishpan and scrubbed them, paying meticulous attention to each. The silence thickened.

“I’m sorry for what I said. I was angry at Aaron, but that’s no excuse.” Rivka took the forks from Ada and dried them, thinking of Lazar Klein—his scornful voice, his refusal to even glance in her direction as he wrapped her parcel and took her money. “We like to think we’re good people, kind people. But so many aren’t kind to you and Nat. I’m sorry for that, too.”

Ada said nothing. When Rivka looked up from her task, she saw a softness in Ada’s eyes. Forgiveness? Maybe the beginning of it.

“None of us has it easy these days.” Ada nodded toward the stewpot on the stove. “Hand me that, will you? We’ll set it to soak awhile.”

§

Hanley went home from the stationhouse for a light meal, then ventured out again. The air felt soft, the day’s heat slowly easing as twilight gathered. A distant church bell tolled the three-quarter hour. Hanley headed east on Madison, then turned north onto Jefferson Street. Ten more minutes’ walk brought him to the rail yard. At near eight o’clock, there was still light enough yet to see. He’d timed his arrival as precisely as he could, enough after the workday ended for the men to have gone, but before full darkness fell. Lantern light in the office window would draw attention, the last thing he needed on this mad venture.

It’ll only take a few minutes. Then I’ll go on to Cleary’s, find those two Norwegians, see what they tell me about where Mahoney really was on the night O’Shea was murdered. He lingered on the far side of Jefferson and Kinzie, watching the yard. A minute crawled by, then another. In the ebbing light, a figure in the uniform and flat cap of a rail cop ambled past and vanished amid the motionless freights in the cargo area. Hanley waited some more, counting to thirty in his head, but no one else appeared in the portion of the yard he could see.

He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. The crisscrossing tracks at street grade just ahead of him were empty. Now or never. He hurried across the tracks and Kinzie Street into the yard, then halted to get his bearings. The cargo area where he’d watched the men unload cotton bales lay to his right, boxcars and flatbeds crowding it like slumbering giants. The yard office stood past it, deeper in and slightly to the north by the riverbank.

He crept through the cargo area, keeping close to the freights. A bull’s-eye lantern flashed up ahead, and he flattened himself against a boxcar as the railroad bull walked past, whistling a haunting and familiar tune. After a moment, Hanley recognized it as “The Parting Glass.” The rail cop vanished from sight, and Hanley breathed easier. The office lay a few yards ahead. Pray God it wasn’t locked—or, if it was, he’d manage to make good use of the hook pick he’d brought along. He slid a hand into his trouser pocket and touched the slender length of metal. Years ago, long before the war and joining the police, when he’d been a petty criminal thieving off the docks, he’d watched Crowfoot Abe and other cracksmen at work a time or three. Paid good attention, too. He should remember how to do it…

One last check for motion, a lantern flash, the sound of a whistle or a footfall nearby. Nothing. Hanley took a cautious step away from the boxcar. The light was nearly gone. Would he be able to see the damned door lock clearly enough to pick it? Maybe he’d get lucky and wouldn’t have to. Another step forward, glance right, glance left. Still nothing. He drew in a breath, ready to run across the open ground into the shadow of the building.

“Hey! You!” The shout came from behind and to his left, amid the hulking freight cars. A man’s figure coalesced in the spill of light from the bull’s-eye lantern he held up, and Hanley recognized Officer Walker.

He resisted the instinct to run, stood his ground as Walker came closer. Surprise, then suspicion, crossed the rail cop’s face. “Detective,” Walker said, as if what he meant was sonofabitch. “Yard’s closed for the night. You mind telling me what the hell you’re doing here?”

§

Late that night, voices woke Rivka from fitful sleep. Ada and Aaron, sharp with worry.

“—don’t know what to do,” Ada said.

“I don’t know, either. How can I advise you about a man I’ve never met?”

“You didn’t want to meet him.”

“And you didn’t want me to.” Silence followed, heavy as the darkness in Rivka’s bedroom. Then Aaron said, more gently, “I’m sorry. You had to do as you thought best.”

“He wouldn’t understand,” Ada answered. Another silence fell. Rivka sat up, straining to hear more.

“Nat didn’t tell me.” Ada again. “I found the letter in his pocket when I shook out his trousers. He usually puts away his clothes. If I hadn’t checked on him just now—”

“Maybe he was taking time to think before he said anything.”

“Think? About what? His home is with us. Just because Ezra wants—” She broke off. “I shouldn’t have told Ezra anything. I should have guessed this might happen…he might try to claim Nat…after all he’s been through…”

“Hush.” Aaron’s tone was loving now. “We’ll talk to Nat. He must be surprised by this, too. He won’t do anything right away. Can you speak to Ezra tomorrow? Make him see sense?”

Ada’s reply was muffled. “Pray God I can.”