Read Online Bowery Girl by Kim Taylor - Free Book Online

remember the nun who found her and scooped her from the rushes. Fat, fat baby floating like a fallen star near the river’s edge.
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    This was the story Sister Mary Clara told her. Mary Clara was dismissed from the charity for telling such gruesome lies to little girls. At Mary Clara’s charity, Mollie went by the name of Sarah.
    The story Mollie Flynn liked the least was probably the truth. She had been left in the basket outside the Foundling Asylum, lucky enough not to freeze during the night. She was given the name of Margaret.
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    She had been called Alice and Caroline and even Pennsylvania. Charity to charity, outgrowing one, transferred to another after stealing bread, kicked out from a third for “seducing” the priest at Mass. She’d learned the skills of pickpocketing from Googs Mallory, whose bed was next to hers in the New York School for Delinquent Children. Googs was the only one who believed Mollie’s story. She was also familiar with Father Timothy’s roving hands.
    They escaped together, and Mollie became the “stall,” shifting a mark’s attention away from his wallet long enough for Googs to take it. Then one morning, Googs disappeared with money that by all rights should have been shared.
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    Not much she could do after that but learn the trade better. At first, she supplemented her earnings of pennies by begging, then singing on a street corner and gasping as if she were to die of consumption any minute. She knew all the saloons with the deepest and freshest trash bins. She kept to herself—how Father Timothy had set her against trusting anyone!—and crawled into the mound of rags in the Ragpickers’ Lot for sleep. She woke and wandered and became the best pickpocket she could.
    Each morning, she emerged to find a cup of beer and some scrap of food—a half-eaten muffin, a rip of ham, an apple. As she ate, she watched a girl across the lot who wore a blonde wig and lifted her skirts in daylight. She knew this girl was the one who brought food.
    Mollie once asked Annabelle why she chose to rescue her. “Hell,” Annabelle said, “I used to sleep in that very same spot when my da and mam threw me over for the new baby. I just didn’t want no one else to take it, that’s all. Never know when I’ll need it again. Just want the space free, is all.”
    And she saw in Annabelle Lee the kindest person she’d ever known.

March, 1883
    A FORTUNE
    â€œIT’S JUST A MATTER OF opening a door, Annabelle. He’s gonna take it as payment for the debt. Jesus, that sets us up right. Then what we take is our own again. If we’re lucky, we’ll have enough to move by summer.”
    Annabelle stared through the window of a secondhand shop at a tortoiseshell comb and a pair of gloves that showed only the slightest wear on the fingers. “I got a bad feeling, is all.”
    â€œI go through a window. I lift a set of keys. I unlock a door. I walk out.”
    â€œDon’t you ever wonder what it’d be like to be honest?”
    â€œI’m honest. And we’re honestly broke. And it’s Sunday and I don’t want to think about it.” Mollie continued down the street. She massaged her temples. She wanted to squeeze out the thoughts, the ones that came unbidden, the ones that kept her from Mass, that kept her from sleep.
    She was a thief because it paid better than a real job. It was a job, and she was of a practical nature. She knew what it took to survive—how much to steal to make rent, to buy food, to have a few odd coins for enjoyment. She had analyzed the streets of the Fourth Ward, the movement of the people, and determined the best times of day to maximize her take. She had been cautious and never greedy. And she loved the challenge—yes, she admitted it—loved the way her fingers tingled and sounds flattened out and the only things she saw were pockets and