Tommy pounded home, thick, humid air burning his cheeks, blood rushing in his ears. He picked up speed, vision blurring, dodging wagons in the nick of time, leaping train tracks, vaulting fences. When he reached the little house where the Arthurs were boarding, he dashed through the front door and stopped at the stairs, bent over, hands on his knees, panting. The space was too tight in that moment making the floor seem to rise up, squashing him into the ceiling.
Outside.
He jogged down the hall, through the kitchen, through the garden, to the shed that stood at the rear of Miss Violet’s property. Wheezing and clasping his chest he told himself he was safe, to calm down. When that did nothing, he knew he had to do it.
The knapsack.
He pushed open the shed door, daylight pouring over the rustic, dusty space. Tommy stored his belongings inside even though he slept outside in a tent.
He was beginning to wonder if the panic would ever stop surprising him. His fear that it was a lifelong sentence made its grip on him worse. He pressed his chest, trying to slow his thumping heart. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his back hard against the door.
He didn’t want to do it, but it wasn’t really a choice.
Where is it?
Loft. He climbed the rickety ladder and reached into an old crate. Knapsack in hand he descended, mined through his bag, and yanked out a half-full bottle of whiskey. He dug his thumb into the cork and wiggled it out. He took a swig, the burn familiar, painful, the effects immediate. He warned himself not to drink too much, just enough to settle the fear.
Medicine. A cure. Like anything he might find in Katherine’s book.
It was the only thing that calmed him when panic swept in.
His breathing finally evened out. Another swig. Comfort. That’s what the whiskey delivered. Like nothing else. And it scared him. Like his father needed laudanum from time to time, Tommy hoped the whiskey cure would stay useful and not overtake him, changing him for the worse, eliminating its curative properties. He set his knapsack down and went back outside onto the tiny porch that fronted the shed. He breathed the open air deeply, ignoring the urge to go back in for one more swig.
He looked up at the vines and ivy woven throughout the rickety trellis suspended over the porch. If he could see inside his mind, his thoughts would appear tangled like the vines when he was having an attack. Each green shoot snarled and strangled by the next with no way to allow ideas to logically move from conception to fruition. He simply responded to his body’s need to flee.
The shade under the thick vines cooled him. Every muscle in his body quivered, and he knew if pressed he wouldn’t be able to run another bit. The screech of a hawk flying low drew his attention upward, but he only saw splashes of blue sky peeking through the green canopy.
Tommy closed his eyes. The odor of dirt and grass and cow filled his nose. He thought of the crisp blue uniform he’d have worn as elevator man, the one with the gold roping at the shoulder and shiny brass buttons. He squeezed his eyes shut, pain vibrating his chest, mortified at what transpired.
What had happened?
How would he explain this to Mama? She was depending on him, and none of this was fair. He’d done a fine job as bellboy. Who was Mr. Wierach to sweep in and make important changes like it was nothing, without even knowing Tommy’s strengths?
He thought again of Mr. and Mrs. Henderson, caging him in that underground pit. He shuddered. The insects crept over him, tiny feet tickling, taunting. He would fall asleep with his fingers wedged in his ears to keep creatures out of them, then bolt awake when tiny legs worked across his cheek or up his pant leg. Buried alive, he was sure that would feel exactly the same.
His eyes burned. He sat down on the step, wishing the hot breeze blew cool. He put his hat in his lap and brushed his hair out of his face with his forearm. Defeated, his plan to raise money quickly averted. Father. Tommy laid back. He should return to work, apologize, and accept the job. Could he manage the elevator if he tried harder?
He couldn’t get up. Tears gathered and spilled out the corner of his eyes.
Go back. Demand the bellboy position.
He’d been great at it. Mr. Wierach just needed to see that. But with how he’d behaved, entering the front of the building the way he had been accustomed to as a young child, his looney behavior in the elevator—it all added up to a surety that his opportunity to work at the Savery Hotel had dried up and wafted away like cat’s ear seed on a late summer day.
He put his hands behind his head. The hawk called again and Tommy squinted, eyes searching between the gaps in the vines for a view of it. The hawk’s sorrowful call made desperation take rigid form inside him, and he was sure no one had ever felt despair in that way—as a solid mass instead of fleeting emotion. He had to move forward.
A plan.
Mama always had a plan. At least until she didn’t. And it was time for Tommy to act his age and help her, not depend on her. The embarrassment he’d felt at the hotel swept through him again. He rubbed his eyes with his fists, berating himself for letting those unseen fears take control and make him behave like a child. He forced steady, deep breaths in and out, his inhalations finally slowing to normal.
The vines rustled above him.
He got up on his elbows peering into the greens. The movement reminded him of the snakes that used to burrow into the dugouts on the prairie and drop out of the ceiling onto whatever or whomever was underneath. He started to sit up as the vines spread, and a black ball tumbled right into the hat in his lap.
His stomach lurched at the sight. Feathers and beak, lush, ebony feathers pulled close around a body. A crow. Was it dead? Tommy poked at its side and caused it to raise its head and open its mouth as though wanting to talk.
“You’re alive,” Tommy whispered at the peeping bird, its wings reflected with deep blue when the sunlight shot through gaps above and hit its body. Tommy looked upward, searching for the nest, for a mother bird or siblings. Nothing. The bird had materialized out of thin air.
He waited for it to leap up and fly away or to peck at him. But it just lay there, breathing, probably recovering from bone-deep fear, same as Tommy had just done. In the distance, the hawk’s scream came again, then closer and faster and closer, right over the trellis. A chill went through Tommy.
“That hawk had you, didn’t he? Dropped you and here you are.” Tommy put his hand under the weight of the bird, thinking it was enjoying the feel of the tweed cap.
Tommy examined the bird, pressing its wings here and there, assessing its health. This helpless animal reminded him of the occasion that changed the way he saw animals. He’d never been a big hunter as a small boy. His family had hired people for that type of thing. On the prairie, he’d done his share of trapping prairie chickens and rabbits, but his mother had prepared them for eating. Hunting was not something Tommy enjoyed.
The crow was young, but not a chick. Its beak had darkened from pink to black, and its eyes were dark brown, not blue like a young crow’s would be. Its feathers were full and glossy, and it was as big as his foot. Yet it was stunned enough that it didn’t even try to escape. It seemed to want Tommy to care for it.
Tommy squatted beside the porch, expecting the bird to fly away even as he dug for a worm. When he saw that the squirmy thing was too large for the crow to eat, he tore it in half and mushed it between his fingers. He knew a crow this age could find his own food, but Tommy wanted to show that he would care for him. “I’m sorry, little worm. I hate to do this, but this fella over here needs his lunch.”
Tommy sat on the porch, hat in lap, brushing the corner of the crow’s beak to coax it into accepting the food. When the bird had eaten several mouthfuls, it found Tommy’s gaze, and he swore at that moment the crow thanked him with a tiny nod before pushing its face into the side of the hat and falling asleep. “My little foundling.”
Tommy brushed the soft wings, watching as the tiny body relaxed further into what he deemed must be sweet slumber. Seeing the fragile bird safe and comfortable made Tommy wish he could curl up inside the hat with his new friend, the only thing on earth that actually needed him.