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on her mind. “How about a bit of lunch before we go speak with Mary O’Shaunessy’s neighbors?” Her wish was to fatten him up.
He beamed. “Did you hear my stomach growlin’?” he asked.
Francesca smiled in return. “No, but I do believe we have lots of leftover roast turkey
and
a fresh apple pie waiting just for you.”
THREE
F RIDAY , F EBRUARY 7, 1902—2:00 P.M.
It had been very tempting, as their cab had gone down Fifth Avenue, to pause at Sherry Netherland’s. In fact, Francesca had recognized Hart’s large, elegant brougham standing not far from the famous hotel’s entrance, in a line of other, similar coaches, his carriage man chatting with the hotel’s doormen. However, she had more important affairs to conduct now.
Joel had told her that Mary O’Shaunessy had lived on Avenue C and 4th Street. This neighborhood was a singularly crowded and depressed one: the tenements seemed older, more ramshackle, and more jam-packed. Francesca felt uneasy even though it was broad daylight; she did not like the various men loitering on the corner, and a pack of boys hanging about one stone stoop made the hairs prickle on her nape. They weren’t playing jacks, cards, or dice; they were merely standing about, staring at the passersby with dark, sullen eyes.
“Forgive me if I am wrong,” she said, after letting the cabbie go. “But is that a gang of boys, Joel?”
He, too, looked uneasy. “Don’t even look at ’em,” he warned, low. “Yep, they’s the Mugheads, an’ they’re mean an’ ornery. I didn’t think they’d be about at this hour, lady. Wish you didn’t stand out like a sore thumb.”
An image of her parents flashed through her mind. If she fell into jeopardy now, she did not know which party would scare her more, the Mugheads or Andrew and Julia.Joel had deliberately increased his pace, and Francesca did so as well. She turned to look back at the stoop, but a huge dray was blocking her view. There was hardly any vehicular traffic in the neighborhood, she realized. That was odd, too.
Then she realized that if the neighborhood was nothing but tenements—and she saw but two saloons and one small grocery store—there would be hardly any traffic, other than that of its impoverished residents.
One of the boys had turned to stare openly at them. He was a tall, lanky redhead, a wool cap pulled partly over his shaggy hair. His gaze met Francesca’s and he grinned. He turned and nudged a companion.
“Don’t look at ’em!” Joel hissed beneath his breath.
Francesca turned away as the entire pack of five boys stared at them.
“This is it,” Joel said, tugging hard on a rusted bolt. The door fell slowly open, and a stench came from the unlit hall inside.
“She lived here?” Francesca gasped.
“She and the girls shared a room with two other families. One of ’em is the Jadvics,” he said.
“Poles?” she asked, finding a handkerchief in her purse. She had to hold it to her nose. It was clear that someone had become violently ill some time ago in the stairwell.
“Think so,” Joel said. On the first landing he went to the first door and pounded on it. “Mrs. Jadvic!” he called, sounding very much like a ten-year-old boy. “You at home? It’s Joel Kennedy! Mrs. Jadvic?”
Francesca almost smiled, but the rotten building was just too depressing.
The door was cracked open. An old woman with hanging jowls in a worn yellow housedress—the color now more beige—eyed them suspiciously.
“It’s me, Joel Kennedy, Grandma Jadvic. This is me friend, a real lady, Miss Cahill. Can we come in? It stinks out here,” he protested.
The door was opened more widely and the woman’s face softened. She nodded.
Francesca entered a room with a stove, a small table, two rickety chairs, and five mattresses. Four of the mattresses were inhabited by children of various ages, playing with paper dolls and one tin soldier. The youngest, a little girl of two or three, was sucking on a teat.
He beamed. “Did you hear my stomach growlin’?” he asked.
Francesca smiled in return. “No, but I do believe we have lots of leftover roast turkey
and
a fresh apple pie waiting just for you.”
THREE
F RIDAY , F EBRUARY 7, 1902—2:00 P.M.
It had been very tempting, as their cab had gone down Fifth Avenue, to pause at Sherry Netherland’s. In fact, Francesca had recognized Hart’s large, elegant brougham standing not far from the famous hotel’s entrance, in a line of other, similar coaches, his carriage man chatting with the hotel’s doormen. However, she had more important affairs to conduct now.
Joel had told her that Mary O’Shaunessy had lived on Avenue C and 4th Street. This neighborhood was a singularly crowded and depressed one: the tenements seemed older, more ramshackle, and more jam-packed. Francesca felt uneasy even though it was broad daylight; she did not like the various men loitering on the corner, and a pack of boys hanging about one stone stoop made the hairs prickle on her nape. They weren’t playing jacks, cards, or dice; they were merely standing about, staring at the passersby with dark, sullen eyes.
“Forgive me if I am wrong,” she said, after letting the cabbie go. “But is that a gang of boys, Joel?”
He, too, looked uneasy. “Don’t even look at ’em,” he warned, low. “Yep, they’s the Mugheads, an’ they’re mean an’ ornery. I didn’t think they’d be about at this hour, lady. Wish you didn’t stand out like a sore thumb.”
An image of her parents flashed through her mind. If she fell into jeopardy now, she did not know which party would scare her more, the Mugheads or Andrew and Julia.Joel had deliberately increased his pace, and Francesca did so as well. She turned to look back at the stoop, but a huge dray was blocking her view. There was hardly any vehicular traffic in the neighborhood, she realized. That was odd, too.
Then she realized that if the neighborhood was nothing but tenements—and she saw but two saloons and one small grocery store—there would be hardly any traffic, other than that of its impoverished residents.
One of the boys had turned to stare openly at them. He was a tall, lanky redhead, a wool cap pulled partly over his shaggy hair. His gaze met Francesca’s and he grinned. He turned and nudged a companion.
“Don’t look at ’em!” Joel hissed beneath his breath.
Francesca turned away as the entire pack of five boys stared at them.
“This is it,” Joel said, tugging hard on a rusted bolt. The door fell slowly open, and a stench came from the unlit hall inside.
“She lived here?” Francesca gasped.
“She and the girls shared a room with two other families. One of ’em is the Jadvics,” he said.
“Poles?” she asked, finding a handkerchief in her purse. She had to hold it to her nose. It was clear that someone had become violently ill some time ago in the stairwell.
“Think so,” Joel said. On the first landing he went to the first door and pounded on it. “Mrs. Jadvic!” he called, sounding very much like a ten-year-old boy. “You at home? It’s Joel Kennedy! Mrs. Jadvic?”
Francesca almost smiled, but the rotten building was just too depressing.
The door was cracked open. An old woman with hanging jowls in a worn yellow housedress—the color now more beige—eyed them suspiciously.
“It’s me, Joel Kennedy, Grandma Jadvic. This is me friend, a real lady, Miss Cahill. Can we come in? It stinks out here,” he protested.
The door was opened more widely and the woman’s face softened. She nodded.
Francesca entered a room with a stove, a small table, two rickety chairs, and five mattresses. Four of the mattresses were inhabited by children of various ages, playing with paper dolls and one tin soldier. The youngest, a little girl of two or three, was sucking on a teat.
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